


Heroes Day: Ghosts of the Past

by TheFemPC



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Angst and Romance, Angst and Tragedy, Awkwardness, Betrayal, Cultural Differences, Elf/Human Relationship(s), F/M, First Time, Haunting, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Loss, Loss of Virginity, My First Smut, Outdoor Sex, Personal Tragedy, Promises, Redemption, Revenge, Rough Kissing, Rough Sex, Shameless Smut, Triggers, Unrequited Love, unlikely friendship
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-18
Updated: 2017-03-15
Packaged: 2018-09-09 09:31:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 24
Words: 51,569
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8885698
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheFemPC/pseuds/TheFemPC
Summary: After the sacrifice of the Grey Warden that ended the Fifth Blight, the king of Ferelden created a day of remembrance for the fallen. It is said that every year he would travel to Redcliffe village personally to mourn the warden herself.  Many recall their savior as a valiant hero, but few know the truth of the life she lead. Behind an act of heroism lay a tragic tale of a young woman forced to bear a burden of sorrow and tragedy.
Ten years have passed, and the anniversary of her death looms ever closer. Those who were once her closest companions have moved on with their lives, but the ghosts of the past still linger, and this year, they will make themselves known.





	1. Prologue: The Return

Beneath the first light of dawn, the great griffin gleamed brightly, bathed in the radiance of the warm sun.

The people of Redcliffe rarely paid heed to the landmark throughout the year. No resident could fail to recall the reason for its place within the heart of the bustling village, and as such there was a sense of unease around it. During the summer months when merchant’s would arrive en masse it garnered much more interest as a conversational piece, but rarely would the locals speak of it. Many found themselves displeased with the common use of the word “statue”, so often used by outsiders. 

Yet ten years had obscured so much of the truth about the Fifth Blight, and even more so about the Grey Warden who’s remains rested uneasily beneath the great sentinel Griffin that cast its eternal gaze upon the distance. The statue was no statue at all, but a mausoleum. 

This day was different to others though. It was the beginning of the preparations for a nationwide celebration, and Redcliffe was to be at the heart of it all. For seven days, the residents of the prosperous farming region would busy themselves in the village, readying their market stalls and houses for the influx of visitors that would travel with the king from Denerim, serving as his royal envoy. The landmark Griffin would be scrubbed vigorously and polished until it shone, as though it were new once more. Children from the outskirts would gather wildflowers and beg their mothers for a coin or two to purchase ribbons to tie their bundled offerings before they laid them at the monument. Many thought the celebration a brilliant scheme of the lords in Denerim for all the profit it brought to the community, but others felt it was something deeper. As children scampered to and fro by the docks, often the wise woman would cry out to them “Leave no roses with your offerings, sweet children. She loved the sight of them once, but you’ll give her spirit naught but sorrow if she should look upon them now.”  
So few would ever question her words. She was the eldest resident in the village, often rumoured to have been there in her usual spot before the village was even built. People often jokingly said that the village must have been built around her, for she was so stubborn. She would often spout tales that seemed like nonsense, yet no one ever denied there were grains of truth in her words. Sometimes the children, in their boldness, would question her further, but her answers were most often cryptic. It was simply accepted that she had some strange power to see the truth in all tales of the past. This year it was a rosy-faced waif of a girl from the farmlands that paused to tilt her head at her words. “Why does the Hero of Ferelden hate roses, miss?”  
The old crone leaned close to her, close enough for the girl to see the deep etchings of lines upon her face, the depth within her all-seeing eyes, and smiled a toothless grin at her amusing curiosity. “Her life was lost for the love of a rose, sweet child. Best leave her wildflowers, to remind her of the forest where she belongs.”  
Sure enough, the girl returned a day later with an array of wildflowers tied in a blue ribbon, and the old woman smiled at her fondly for her gentle understanding.  
The old griffin was starting to look rather immaculate as tokens began to pile up, and sure enough as it had for ten years now, the royal envoy soon arrived. The people came out onto the streets to welcome the large entourage. It was a sight to behold, with a dozen carriages flanked by a hundred guards on horseback, and the great gilded carriage of the King of Ferelden himself at the center of it all. The procession made its way through the village and up to the castle of Lord Guerrin and his family, who would host them for the duration of their stay. The children trailed close behind, hoping to earn a coin from the soldiers, a charity often given during a royal procession. But no such charity was given today, for the children were left wanting as the gates were shut, and they returned to the village with much complaint.  
For two days, the gates of Redcliffe castle remained shut, but when Heroes day had finally come, it was Arl Eamon that emerged to address his people, not the King himself, to bid them to commence their festivities.  
Only when night fell, when the village grew quiet and empty, did the King of Ferelden ascend from his lodgings, accompanied from a distance by four cloaked guardsmen, to lay his own offerings beneath the convicting, far-off gaze of the griffin and the mausoleum it protected.  
Upon a sea of wildflowers, he placed ten red roses, rich and vibrant in colour. There he knelt, silent as a man at prayer, while his guards watched on from the shadows.  
The little waif who had left her offerings days before happened by whilst making a delivery of wood to the inn at her fathers bidding, and gasped at the sight of the roses that lay there. For a moment of utter foolishness, she had not seen the guards that stood silently beneath the cover of a nearby rooftop, and thought the cloaked figure of the king no more than a latecomer come to leave his offering.  
“No no no!” she cried out accusingly, dropping her sack of wood to the floor. “you must not leave roses for it will make her sad!”  
King Alistair was snapped from his silent contemplation and his head came up abruptly. “Who speaks?” he said angrily, glancing in her direction.  
All of a sudden the four hidden guards stepped out into the lamplight, and the spindly girl froze in terror to realize her mistake. The King was on his feet in an instant, waving his men away as he came to stand before her. She looked up at his tall figure, but did not dare meet his eyes. From a cursory glance, she felt foolish for her confusion. Everyone had spoken of him as a young and handsome man, but the man who stood over her looked as though he was far older. His face was jowly and his physique was hardly fit at all. She focused her gaze on the floor, feeling all of a sudden like a naughty child caught stealing, and wondered if she would be punished for speaking to a royal man in such a common way.  
He merely knelt before her. “look at me, girl” he said impatiently, and she obeyed.  
His eyes were weary and sunken, red-rimmed as though he had been crying, or drinking, or both. “why is it that you say I must not leave roses?” he said in a gentler tone.  
It took her a long moment to find her voice. “the old woman from the village said it would upset her spirit…your majesty”  
He grunted, and wiped his eyes with the back of his gloved hand. “did she now? And why would the old crone tell you such a thing?”  
The waif was desperate to leave, for she felt a sudden sense of dread now that she was trapped. “she…she said the Hero died for love of a rose ser. May I please leave? I meant no disrespect ser!”  
She saw his hand move again and winced, expecting he would slap her for her insolence. Instead it moved to his side, and produced a flask from his belt. He uncorked it, and took a long gulp of what smelled heavily of whiskey. “bloody old crone” he muttered disdainfully. “thinks she’s got the sight, thinks she can see the truth in things. What nonsense”  
Curious, the waif looked up at him. “does she lie, sir?”  
“Lynaia loved roses” he whispered determinedly, his eyes on the sky.  
“who sir?” she asked, confused.  
His eyes fell back on her, and there was a deathly coldness in them that made her want to run for as long and far as she could. “maker preserve you child, and all you fools” he spat. “you all spend your lives under the shadow of that grave, and who among you even new her name?”  
Frozen in fear, the little waif longed to wail for the terror she felt for having found herself in such a terrible position. She knew now, belatedly, that he spoke of the Hero of Ferelden, a woman who had lived and died before she was even born. To her relief, he seemed to realize it. “She saved this village twice over and no one bothered to tell a true story” he scoffed, taking another gulp of whiskey. His voice seemed terribly hoarse.  
He turned away from her then, as though she were nothing to him but an unpleasant smell he wished to be rid of. She thought to leave quickly when he said nothing, but to her surprise, he instead tossed her a sovereign, which glinted in the light as it landed in her hand. “Begone, girl. Leave me alone with my sorrows, and speak of this to no one.”  
She bowed deeply, the only action she knew was appropriate in the company of noble men, and hastily ran with her sack of wood slung over her shoulder, away from him and the fear he inspired with his strange, disjointed words. 

Finally alone, King Alistair returned to his place before the monument, determined to finish with his yearly tradition. 

The roses had wilted, now nothing more than a pile of dead petals and decayed leaves amongst the thriving wildflowers, pockmarked with hideous black spots. 

The air grew cold as a fog rolled in from the coast, and fear struck at his heart like a knife in the dark. 

Without so much as a word to his guardsmen, Alistair was suddenly running, frantic, panicked, as though death’s hand was clawing its way across the water to reach him. 

And perhaps it was, for ten years had passed since her death. It seemed only right that she would come for him now.


	2. Leliana's confession, anniversary

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Leliana, spymaster of the Inquisition, experiences an unnatural occurrence on the eve of Heroes day.

“Thank you, Fletcher, that will be all”

Leliana handed the last of her day’s transcripts to her trusted agent, and the elf smiled and bowed, leaving without a word. Fletcher was one of the best agents in her small squadron, and she had faith in the young elf’s skills. It was not easy work to be an agent of a spymaster, but there was hardly ever complaint for it, for which she was glad. It was a difficult time for all, and uncomplaining, diligent agents made everything run smoother.  
With her most important business completed, she would usually adjourn to the War Room to plot the next scout movement. Today she would not. Under normal circumstances, nothing was prioritized over the Inquisitions interests, but there was something that now took precedence in her mind that could not be ignored.  
She locked the hatch to the rookery, though she had already left instructions not to be disturbed. Save for the cawing of her messenger ravens, there was a sweet sense of peace in her quarters, though it hardly touched her now.  
Her anxieties had began only a few days prior, when she had taken note of the date etched upon one of her delivered documents. Heroes day was fast approaching, the anniversary of the ending of the Blight. Her mind had been overcome with a flood of memories of the dark times she had endured, and of all that had been lost. She longed now only for the solace of the Maker.  
The little shrine she tended in the rookery was filled with sputtering candles, their flames wavering in the gentle breeze. Leliana knelt before it clasped her trembling hands together, bowing her head reverently. After a few quiet moments, she began to recite the verses of the chant of light. She always began with the Benedictions, for it seemed always appropriate in times of unease.

“Blessed are they who stand before  
the corrupt and the wicked and do not falter.  
Blessed are the peacekeepers, champions of the just…”

The words sounded clumsy when she uttered them, though the chant had become so natural to her in the many years she had known them. Her trembling hands were causing such a distraction that she had to dig her fingernails into the backs of her hands to keep focus. 

“Blessed are the righteous, the lights…the lights… in the shadow.  
In their…their blood the makers will is…”

She opened her eyes and looked to the figure of the Prophet Andraste, despairing at her failure to recite the chant.

Her eyes met the image of a mortal woman instead, who’s hair was the deep, dark colour of blood. She too was burning, but in flames of black. Her face was a picture of utter despair and pain, her sea green eyes weeping blood. Leliana gasped, her hand placed over her heart as she tumbled backwards, her head hitting the wooden guard rail behind her. The ravens cawed loudly and frantically, desperate to escape their cages. She shook her head mechanically, unable to take her eyes from the terrifying and familiar image. She had seen this image before, in her dreams. Was she going mad?

“Please” she cried out, her voice as high as a frightened child. “By all that is holy…”

The black flames seemed to escape the painted image, and her eyes watered as the choking fumes filled her throat. She rolled onto her side, her hand clasping her throat, whimpering at the pain. 

Holding her head low to the floor, she shut her eyes tightly, frantically reciting all the most holy words that she knew, though she could barely breathe. 

When her eyes opened again, and she once again dared to move, the room was unfettered by fire or flame, and the terrifying visage had fled. Save for the restlessness of the ravens, she might have thought the entire thing a hallucination.

Andraste’s calming figure was now where it always had been, and she crawled on all fours to the alter, placing her hands upon it to make sure it was real.

All her resolve and stoicism crumbled then. She lowered her forehead to the wood and let loose a torrent of tears that had been unshed for many years, weeping shamelessly. 

From behind her came a voice, no more than a soft, ethereal whisper.

"Hello, my dearest friend"

Leliana froze, her weeping ceased abruptly, at the sound of a voice that belonged to a woman long dead.


	3. Morrigan's regret, anniversary

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Morrigan settles in at Skyhold following her appointment as representing advisor of the imperial court, but it is not only the living companions of the past that bring back memories. Something lurks within Skyhold, and it calls to her.

Skyhold was decidedly a step down in elegance from the life she had enjoyed in the imperial court. It was an impressive structure however, and one that served quite admirably as a stronghold for the forces of the Inquisition. It was safe, and that was what mattered.  
Morrigan did not regret her decision to coerce the Empress into appointing her as imperial advisor to the Inquisition. Since the betrayal of the Duchess, eyes had fallen upon her too often. Too many whispers endangered her safety, and distracted her from seeking what knowledge she needed. It was an advantageous position overall, given the direction this new army now faced.  
She did not take much with her, save for a few garments and baubles she had grown particularly fond of. It had surprised her a great deal to find that she took less pleasure in finery than she had anticipated, having spent her life coveting finer things. The court had held her interest for a time, but it often grew dull, and she longed for the wilds again after the years spent behind the gilded gates of the palace. The only thing that she had insisted on having sent to her new, temporary home, was the Eluvian. She would not have dared to leave it in the palace to be poked and prodded by scholars drooling over the knowledge it might hold, without even the slightest idea of how it worked.  
It was housed in a room adjoined to the gardens, where she often spent her time pouring over research or gathering herbs for alchemy, kindly supplied by the inquisitor herself, who had brought in planters to grow some rare herbs she used for her own practices. It seemed like dramatic irony that another Dalish elf should rise to power in a world that reviled their kind, but just as before, she found her an easier companion at times for her like-mindedness and respect for nature.  
Leliana, whom she had travelled with during the blight, could hardly bear to look upon her, and the words between them had been few. She clearly harboured the same distrust and disdain as she had before, and likely had warned others of her nature. It made little difference. She certainly seemed less pious and prissy than before, but it was only a minor improvement.  
This place held many reminders of the past besides the Spymaster. The Inquisition Commander was one face she recognized from the mage tower in Ferelden, a sorry soul that survived the treachery of weak-minded mages. His improvement was noticeably different, for he didn’t immediately demand her swift arrest for being an unshackled mage, though he wore a look of suspicion in her presence nonetheless.  
There was also the ongoing presence of the very familiar face of the former Teyrn of Gwaren, who spent most of his time stalking the barracks while the warden’s calling was under investigation. It was not hard to see his interest in the inquisitions military forces, though he kept his distance. No doubt some part of him wished to advise the young commander and nitpick at every small detail as any retired general would. His age had grown particularly apparent though, no doubt in some part due to the blight.

That night, she began to settle into her quarters. She had neglected to unpack anything unnecessary upon her arrival, but she supposed now it was as good a time as any to do it. Her pack was neatly folded with all of her effects, and upon opening it, her eyes immediately fell to the small gold mirror wedged safely between two rolls of cotton. She smiled fondly at it. There had been a dozen more elegant mirrors grander than this, but it had been a gift once from an old friend, her only friend, and that made it priceless. She removed the wrappings and flipped it over, to gaze at her reflection. Raising it to her face, she smiled again, glad to see that she had not aged so dreadfully as others, in fact she had barely aged at all. A pretty, young face was a power in itself, and one at her disposal still. 

Then something caught her eye.

It was only there for a moment before it disappeared, but it was enough to set her alert. 

For one, dreadful moment, another face loomed over her shoulder. Blood red hair contrasted against her own dark locks, and sea green eyes pierced her own from the reflection.

She whirled around, almost dropping the mirror, but nothing, and no one, was there. 

Regaining her composure, she looked about suspiciously. “what have we here?” she said, her voice wavering ever so slightly. “do I have a visitor, or is my mind playing tricks on me?”

She knew better than to taunt a spirit, but it seemed appropriate for some odd reason. “show yourself” she said gravely, the magic at her fingertips poised for release. 

There was no answer.

She shut her eyes and breathed deeply, hoping to pick up on something that would reveal the strange entity. While others might believe a spirit simply vanished, she knew better. There was always a trail, and she was starting to pick up on it. Following her instincts, she left the room, and stepped without thinking, only feeling. She walked along the rows of rooms and down the steps to the garden, and then she found herself moving towards the room containing….

…the Eluvian.

For a terrible instant, she wondered if this was a trick of her long-dead mother, come to lure her into her snare. But surely not. This did not seem like trickery. It seemed far too real.

Soon enough she was standing before the great and ancient mirror she prized above all else, but the room was empty. “well, here I am” she declared aloud, with some suspicion laced in her tone. “reveal yourself”

Sure enough, it did. 

She did.

Morrigan watched with fascination as her own image melted away, and a new one took its place.

“surely not…” Morrigan breathed, though she knew it was no lie. “you’re dead…”

The manifestation was clear, and the woman in the mirror smiled back at her. 

“I am” said the hauntingly familiar voice, and her hand stretched forth from the Eluvian. “Come, let us walk, Morrigan.”

Morrigan’s hesitation was overruled by her curiosity, and despite her better judgement, she reached out her own hand, and was surprised to feel the cold hand take hers, leading her into the realm beyond.


	4. Loghain's atonement, Anniversary

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Her actions had changed his life, but Loghain wonders where it will all lead in the end. Will he ever find the redemption she swore would come?  
> Heroes day has come, and he may soon find out.

The Inquisition was shaping up well for an upstart campaign, though it had yet to be tested on the field of battle. Loghain often wandered the barracks since he had come to Skyhold, and couldn’t help but scrutinize the military forces during their practices. It was an old habit that never died with his reputation. He was glad to see at least that the men and women of the Inquisition were lead by a good Ferelden lad. His Templar training was obvious, given the way he trained his forces to hold their shields, but he lead like any true Ferelden-born ought to. At times Loghain felt the urge to correct him on some of his instructions, but it was not his place to do so. On the one occasion he had managed to speak at length with him, it was clear that he was a stubborn sort, which was not particularly off-putting. It showed that he was not loose with his convictions, and was sure-footed enough to trust his own instinct. Nonetheless, a few mabari units would certainly reflect a more intimidating force.  
Despite the hard times that had lead him here, he was glad of the rest. Having been on the run since Clarel and the other wardens had turned to madness, it was good to be amongst sane individuals, though he rarely spoke to anyone. There were still those who remembered his name with much vitriol, even here, though in contrast there were also some who remembered who he had once been. On occasion, he heard his old title being quietly applied by the odd person, most often by the Quartermaster Threnn. A touching sentiment, but even now it stung slightly to hear it again.  
He was evidently not the only Grey Warden occupying Skyhold. Warden Blackwall was a fixture in the Inquisitors inner circle, though something about him made did not quite fit. The name was a familiar one, but the man didn’t entirely suit it. If he heard the calling as Loghain did, he was certainly better at concealing it. 

Skyhold was indeed a place that gave him a small measure of peace. Despite the heavy necessity for diplomacy, it lacked a great deal of the dramatic politics and treachery of a court. The Inquisitor was a formidable woman who lead from the front and held her head above the sly remarks of the nobility, unsurprisingly sourced mainly from Orlesians. As a Dalish elf known as “Herald of Andraste”, she was not exactly looked upon favourably by most. But she earned respect through action, and that was what mattered. It was a good thing, too, for she was for the people before the nobility. Often she would ride down to the refugee camps to survey their living conditions, and took time to hear their petitions. On the occasions that she was confined to Skyhold, it seemed she was partial to inviting the lowest ranked workers to dine with her in the great hall, to hear of their concerns. That was something that even he, a noble man of common blood, had never done. It was difficult enough in those days to keep himself in good standing with the nobility of Denerim’s court. 

He found himself thinking of another elf who had risen to fame, though she was often on his mind regardless. Her influence was not easy to forget. 

Sleep eluded him that night, as it often did. The calling rang like a haunting melody in his mind, and it was hard to ignore. He thought of her still as he lay beneath the dusty rafters of his quarters. He’d spent ten years atoning for his crimes as a warden because of her mercy. He should have died at the Landsmeet. He should have died atop Fort Drakon. Because of her actions, here he was now, once again fighting against Grey Wardens, but this time for the right reasons. But where would it end?

He tried in vain to shut his eyes and have at least some rest, but when he shut his eyes, he saw her, he heard her….he smelled her, he tasted her. For one perfect moment the calling was far away as he gave in to his longing to remember her as she was, on a night long ago. 

And then he saw her die, all over again, bathed in the blood of the Archdemon.

His eyes flew open and he sat bolt upright, his chest heaving. The air in the room had grown deathly cold, and despite himself, he shivered. 

It was then that he saw the feminine figure sitting at the end of his bed. 

For a long moment, he could do nothing but stare. 

Her head turned, and her cold, dead eyes looked upon him with a gentleness that terrified him more than her sudden appearance. Her body was drenched in dark blood. 

“Hello again, Old Wolf”


	5. Alistair's Redemption, Anniversary

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shut away in his quarters at Redcliffe, King Alistair finds himself unable to escape the woes of the past in the place still haunted by the memories of the past.

He’d stumbled his way up the path to the keep, desperate to escape from the unnatural fog that was invading and permeating every inch of the village of Redcliffe. His guards were somewhere close behind, but they new better than to question him at a time like this. In fact, they had simply learned to pretend they saw nothing. No doubt they mocked him in secret, but they were clever enough never to let on.  
Once in his quarters, Alistair bolted the door shut. If he’d had a hammer and nails at hand he would have barricaded it too, but what would have been the point? 

Did death ever need an invitation to enter the chambers of the damned?

Oh but he could feel it now, as though he was marked by some invisible target that only the creatures of another world could see. How could it be any less, when this was the last place he had looked upon her, in these very chambers. With shaky hands he flung open the cabinet containing his store of whiskey and ale. He needed to calm down. It might have been no more than his nerves getting the better of him, and that would make sense given the day. He had always feared, somewhere deep inside of his mind, that she would return and have her revenge. He never voiced it to anyone, for they would think him mad indeed to have such a fear of the ghost of a woman long dead. What a foolish fear it was, too. In the privacy of his chambers, Alistair laughed aloud at himself. His mind had not been right since the Blight, and he knew it. Sometimes, it all simply felt like a terrible dream. The nobility made such a pet of him, allowing him whatever liberties he chose for himself, but keeping all serious matters from his sight. The people loved him out of principle, for it would have been a crime not to. He supposed the same sentiment applied to every woman who he brought to his bed. He was nothing more than a puppet to them all; a smiling, waving puppet citing the revised words his advisors had designed when it was necessary to address the public. 

And oh, how he hated them all. 

They thought him a fool, but he was wise enough to see how they used him, how little they truly thought of him. For a time he had tried to be a good king, tried to be involved in the governing of his land, to reflect what a king ought to be. Over time it quickly became apparent that they saw nothing but a bastard child with no place taking such responsibility. The Landsmeet decided everything, the nobles decided everything, and piece-by-piece he was stripped of his duties until all that remained was publicity. So he became what they wanted instead; a compliant creature that played the part of a leader, with no real power.  
He hadn’t even picked up a sword in years. A ceremonial weapon was always at his hip, some terribly clunky gold thing that merely resembled a weapon of a warrior. The crown took much from him, robbed him of everything he had once been. Nothing gave him joy anymore, but he had to smile and carry on nonetheless, and look as though he could manage it all. 

The bottle of ale in his hands was empty within a matter of minutes. It bolstered his courage somewhat, and he stumbled to his bed and sat on the edge, with a new bottle in hand.

He could have been so much more than this wretched creature he had become. If not for her, if not for her treachery and deceitful ways, he might have lived out his days as a warden, and leave a legacy as a respected man. 

There was only one aspect of court life that ever gave him some measure of satisfaction, and that was the knowledge that the former Queen Anora lived far away in her little hovel of a village, far from the court she once loved. She was a spiteful creature, and as treacherous as her father. No doubt he ached to see his beloved daughter cast away with such ease, living in wretched conditions after a life of wealth and prosperity. 

“I got the last laugh though, eh?” he announced with a snort of derision to the empty room. “Hope you’re rotting in the deep roads, you old dog.”

The years had not quelled his rage against the man who betrayed them all at Ostagar. Even in defeat he managed to cause more ruin. No matter what…he just. Wouldn’t. Die. Not in defeat. Not by the joining. Not by the Archdemon.  
Oh how Alistair had dreamed of killing him, sometimes with his bare hands, sometimes with a blade. If it had been him that faced him at the landsmeet, he would have done it. Lynaia offered mercy instead, and it lead them all to ruin, especially him. Yet for this, he still blamed Loghain. It had to be his fault.

The idea of the two of them travelling as companions and comrades still made his skin crawl. She had been a beautiful, so very beautiful, Loghain must have seen it too. In fact, he was sure of it. The mere idea of that despicable creature casting his eyes upon her renewed the font of his hatred towards him time and time again. 

She had been his. He had lain with her beneath a blanket of stars on a cold night and taken her virginity as she took his. Until the day she died she had known no other. He knew it. He was sure of it.

….but the look they shared the day they left Redcliffe for Denerim, the one that made him feel the heat of a boiling rage.

No.

“NO!” he bellowed, throwing the half-empty bottle at the wall. It shattered into pieces that twinkled in the lamplight when they reached the floor, floating in the remains of his whiskey. 

As though the violent sound had alerted some unseen presence, there came a shriek, one that shook him to the core, that made him cover his ears for fear they would bleed at the shrillness of it. 

The ale stain on the wall was still dripping, dark and thick. Only it wasn’t ale, he realized.

It was blood, blood that formed the shape of a woman. 

Alistair screamed, but no one in the waking world ever heard it.


	6. Leliana's Confession: Better Times

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Leliana looks to the past, to better times when the Warden Lynaia still lived, delving into memories she had long since buried.

The harvest moon was high in the sky, streaming light of crimson and gold through the bars of the rookery windows. Leliana could do no more than stare, unbelieving, up at the ethereal figure before her. The light passed through her shimmering form and shrouded her in a cloak of gold. Her eyes were hollow and dark, her skin translucent and deathly pale. Her slim figure was wrapped in a simple, dark and stained linen shift, but there were no feet there to touch the ground.

Maker forgive her, but she was so beautiful, even now, even in death.

“why?” Leliana whispered, her hands clasped on her lap as she kneeled on the cold stone floor. She dared not move. She could not move.

Lynaia cast a sorrowful gaze upon her, and her elegant fingers reached out to smooth her brow. She closed her eyes and surrendered to the comfort of her touch, for it seemed so easily to soothe her. “Poor, Leliana, to have carried such sadness for so long” she said piteously. “what has burdened your heart for so long, to poison it against all goodness and sweetness?”

Leliana smoothed her cheek against the ghostly hand that caressed her brow, fresh tears welling in her eyes. “you have come to hear my confession?”

“if only to free you of it” she whispered, her soft words echoing like wind through a mountain pass.

Like a prisoner before sentence, Leliana bowed her head and dried her eyes, ready to speak of her truth aloud to the only person who needed to hear it.

 

Twelve years ago….

The ripple of their laughter echoed across the clearing as they ran, carefree as children. Lynaia did not set an easy path to follow, her nimbleness outmatching Leliana as she hopped across the wet rocks on the river, with Leliana stumbling and trying her best not to fall into the water. “Where are we going?” she called out. “the others will come looking for us so far away from camp!”  
The elf took her spear and jammed it into the riverbed, vaulting across the deeper end of the stream. She landed elegantly on the other side, and brushed the dirt from her knees. She stretched out the tip of the spear to her, and as soon as Leliana took it, she was pulled across before her feet could graze the still waters. “It is better to practice on rough terrain” she said pragmatically, pointing to the shady copse ahead. “and the camp is too loud for it”  
“its also a decided advantage for someone raised in the woods” Leliana retorted with a giggle.  
Lynaia shrugged. “that is also true”  
They picked their spot for training, a rocky area with a bit of flat grass. Admittedly it was quite a good spot. Lynaia stripped off the heavier pieces of her armour and pulled off her boots, placing them in a neat pile on a nearby rock. Leliana could not help but watch her as she rolled her neck from side to side, free of the burden of pauldrons on her shoulders. Her pretty crimson locks tumbled down her spine, rich and vibrant in the summer sun.  
“Why do you never keep your boots on for this?” she asked, smiling at the way the elf wiggled her toes in the grass.  
Lynaia glanced at her over her shoulder and grinned, presenting her dainty foot. “I’ve never liked boots, or any footwear. The soles of my feet a hardy enough for any terrain. I never used to wear them.”  
“it’s a wonder you bother to wear them at all then”  
Lynaia frowned. “People think it odd”  
She picked up her spear and tapped it on the stones. “this time don’t hold back. I doubt you’ll do me any real damage with those throwing knives.”  
Leliana rolled her eyes and opened the pouch at her waist, revealing her small collection, and plucked two of them from their fastenings. “keep telling yourself that”  
The elf twirled the spear in both hands, until the upper half rested upon her forearm, poised for defense. Leliana flicked her little knives into the desired position and raised her hand. In an instant they flashed through the air, followed quickly by three more.  
Lynaia launched herself into a whirling dervish, repelling one, two, three, and dodging the other two with a quick spin.  
But that was not all that Leliana held in her arsenal. Her shortswords in hand, she ran at her and gained a moment of higher ground, pushing the other woman back a few paces, leaving her unable to return the assault with her spear jammed against her chest. She felt sure it was a win, until the spear came up and pushed her arm above her head, and Lynaia twisted her around, away from her, and butted her with the back of the weapon. She stumbled forward and toppled to her knees, chest heaving from the exhileration of the fight despite the short length of it.  
Lynaia came around and faced her, head tilted to the side, grinning like a fool. “almost” she said with commiseration, and offered her hand.  
But Leliana would not let her win so easily, she took the offer and quickly pulled her forward. The elf squaked and fell face first, landing on top of her, and Leliana quickly flipped her onto her back, pinning her arms to the ground. Lynaia looked momentarily shocked, but a laugh quickly erupted from her lips.  
“Second wind” She said smugly, releasing the womans wrists. “What have I told you about trusting a bard?”  
The elf gave her a thump in the arm. “Not to”  
Leliana nodded and rolled off her, feeling for the knives that lay strewn about in the grass. They went for a second round, and then another, and another, until the evening began to creep in.  
“I suppose we should head back now” Leliana said somberly as they lay in the grass, staring up at the waning sun. it felt like such a perfect sense of peace, she didn’t want it to end. They would be missed though, and there was still much to do back at camp.  
Lynaia, ,lying there with a drooping stalk of grass hanging from her mouth, sat up abruptly and raised a brow at her. “I want to play a game” she said simply.  
“What sort of game?” Leliana asked indulgently.  
The elf rolled forward and sprung to her feet, picking up a twig jutting out from two rocks and holding it up in front of her face. “We used to play this when we travelled by the rivers” she said, with a twinge of sadness in her voice, as she often had when she spoke of anything from her past. “the rule is simple; one person drops the twig in the river upstream, and the other person must compose a poem by the time it reaches them, and then they switch.”  
Leliana shook her head. “poetry is not so simple”  
“it is, when it comes from the heart” the elf snorted dismissively. “we used a simple rhythm; Three lines, five, seven, five. “  
It seemed a sweet enough concept, and Leliana had not written a poem in a long time. “so long as you go first.”  
The game was set. Leliana of course carried a quill with ink, as well as papers, in a pouch on her belt, and she handed them over, giving Lynaia enough time to compose herself before she dropped the stick. It moved quickly down the stream, surely in a faster time than it took to pen a poem. The elf, without looking, plucked it from the water and held up the paper.  
Leliana looked at her in shock. “you must be cheating!” she exclaimed with disbelief. “or you must be the greatest bard that ever lived to have a poem written with such speed”  
Lynaia handed her the quill and winked. “the words come easily when you trust your instincts. And your heart. Now you must write one”  
She sauntered off to her place and Leliana kneeled, the quill poised over a scrap of crumpled paper.

She didn’t look up to see the twig fall into the stream. The words came, as Lynaia said they would, when she trusted her heart.

“Crimson Hair shimmers  
Laughter in her air, ripples  
My love, radiant”

She gasped when she read the words, and forgot to take the twig from the water. It floated away downstream, and Lynaia tutted. “Well?”  
Nervous, Leliana clutched the paper tightly in her palm. “its not very good”  
“I could never believe it” The elf said firmly, holding out the neatly folded paper in her hand. “here’s mine, give me yours”  
She could feel her cheeks turning pink, and she shook her head. “I couldn’t”  
“youre a terrible bard” Lynaia snorted, dropping her poem onto her knees. “read mine, its sure to be graceless compared to whatever you have written.”  
Hesitantly, Leliana unfolded the little piece of paper, and read its contents. 

“Like a rose; soft, sweet  
like the sun that chases rain  
I flee, you follow”

Her heart sank, and the perfect day they shared seemed to crumble away. “Oh” she managed, after a moment. “Its…lovely”  
Of course it would be bonny Alistair she praised. Their relationship was hardly a secret, though they seemed to think it was. He so often followed her like a pup, his eyes lighting up whenever she smiled at his foolishness. Indeed he hardly ever left his side, utterly besotted, and everyone could see it. Lynaia was definitely more subtle in that regard. While it was clear she cared for him, she did not behave like a lovestruck girl. Despite her young age she was measurably more mature, though a little shy nonetheless. 

Of course, Leliana was jealous. She held no ill will against Alistair, but he was a young man with a head full of dreams. While his temperament was sweet, she wondered if he truly appreciated what he had. Lynaia was strong, intelligent and beautiful, a woman who held her head high even with a crushing burden of responsibility weighing heavily upon her shoulders. Above anything, she was a woman who bloomed in freedom, with a longing to roam the wilderness she had been born to, and Leliana knew it, could appreciate it.

But Alistair didn’t. 

His sweetness was apparent because he had what he wanted. She had seen enough treachery in her short life to know that sweetness could so easily turn to bitterness through time and circumstance. She wondered if he had the temperament to realize that it would not always be so ideal.

She looked up from the scrawled poem and gazed deeply into her eyes. “You do love him, don’t you?”

Lynaia turned her head away, her long hair falling over her blushing cheek. “I think I must. How strange it is.”

Leliana could not help but reach for her hand. There was a distant sort of sadness in her eyes that pulled at her heartstrings. “what is it? Is something wrong?”

Perhaps she had doubts about him. Perhaps she had feelings for someone else. Was it foolish to hope that she had feelings for her?

The elf glanced at her. “I thought not to love again.” She said, barely above a whisper. “I lost the man I thought to bond with. But…Alistair is kindness itself, and such a gentle soul. I think I cannot help but love him.”

Leliana felt her stomach tighten, as though she were about to be sick. “there is no shame in that” she said, with some difficulty. “we do not always get to choose who we love.”

Lynaia’s eyes searched hers, as though seeking the truth laced beneath her words, and managed a smile. “Perhaps you are right. I should never doubt that fact.”

Leliana longed to give her the poem, longed for her to know. It felt as though there were some sense of dread that reached beyond even her love. It was jealousy, surely, that caused such imaginings. It would have been wrong of her to voice them, wrong to try to come between the pair of them. Alistair would never be worthy of her, for who could be? Leliana felt herself unworthy too. 

She let go of Lynaia’s hand, and tucked the poem into her sleeve. 

“Come” she said, swallowing the heavy lump in her throat before she came to tears. “I’m sure we’re missed”

Lynaia did not press her, despite the worry on her face. They journeyed back to the camp in uneasy silence. Of course, as soon as they arrived, Alistair was waiting. Before they were even at the fireside he was there at her side, like a pup as always. “I was afraid I’d have to come looking for you!” he exclaimed, trying to hide the joy at her return. “If I’d known you’d be gone for so long, I’d have asked you to bring firewood”  
Lynaia smiled radiantly and Leliana was at once forgotten. They tried to keep a reasonable distance from one another, but it was clear how much they wished it otherwise. “Time got away from us” she said. “but I can go now and find some now?”  
“We have enough for a few more hours” he said assuringly. “but we could both go and find some later. I long for a walk. At any rate I hope the two of you didn’t do too much damage this time?”  
Lynaia smiled shyly and looked to Leliana. “Not much, but it was good sport” she said, and Leliana felt her heart beat fast when she gave her a smile that seemed as though it was just for her. There was the smallest ounce of regret in it that made her think she already knew, in some unconscious way.  
Oblivious, Alistair nodded with approval. “in other words, you won?” He said presumptuously, and gave Leliana a well meaning, joking frown of regret, jutting out his lower lip with feigned pity. “better luck next time, Lel’”

She could feel a rise of anger pooling in her belly. Her fingers dug into her palms so hard they left deep welts. 

“Indeed” she said, through gritted teeth. 

She left then without another word, and went to her tent for the night without so much as a thought of getting dinner from the cook pot. 

Some part of her was beginning to hate them both.


	7. Morrigan's Regret: Better Times

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the solitude of the crossroads, Morrigan remembers a happier time.

In the mists of the crossroads, Lynaia almost looked as though she were alive again.

Almost.

Her eyes, once vibrant, were hollow and deep, like polished obsidian. Her skin was as pale as white marble, reminding her greatly of the old statues one might find buried in the wild lands of the Emerald Graves, neglected but no less intimidating. It was as fascinating as it was unnerving. 

There were a dozens of more appropriate questions, why’s and how’s, that should have been first to be asked, but Morrigan had only one.

“Why here?”

Lynaia stretched out her arms and smiled her hollow smile. “It is beautiful, is it not?” she said, her voice not entirely sounding like her own, as though there was more than a single voice speaking at once. “this place where once even Gods walked, bearing all the perfection of a world long since lost.”

Morrigan was finding it hard to seem unaffected by this strange encounter. “you have not answered my question.”

Lynaia nodded slowly, and lowered her arms. “Many reasons.” She said solemnly. “it was an Eluvian that sealed my fate”

Despite the corporeal form she bore, in an instant she had passed straight through her, and Morrigan felt her blood turn to ice. She whirled around, heart pounding, and watched her as she ran her fingers along the solid form of the threshold that had lead them here. “it was not so pure as this, corrupted by the blight. It took my Tamlen from me, my poor sweet Tamlen-who’s soul will never no rest- and cursed me with its evil in turn. Such a sad fate for so beautiful and ancient a thing that I could bear it no ill will. Even my fate seems sweeter.”  
Her forehead rested against the gilded arch. Morrigan could not help but feel  
Somewhat touched by the consideration she held towards something she cherished in her own way.  
With a soft sigh, the elf withdrew, turning to her with an expression of sadness. “you bear still a love for the ancient things in this world, a sentiment lost to most of your kind” she said. “I admired that in you, old friend”

Morrigan, ever untrusting, could not help but be suspicious. “you have hardly come here only to speak?”

Lynaia turned away from her, staring into the endless mists of the crossroads. “you should know my reasons” she whispered. “after all, it was you who called to me.”

And she had, it was no lie. She had not meant to, but part of her knew she had summoned this shade with her own thoughts. 

 

Twelve years ago…

The city of Denerim had a stink to it, one that seemed not entirely due to the large populous and filthy streets. Morrigan found the politics of these “civilized” cities to be intriguing, but only from a distance. The wild places of the world were her home, away from the dullness of day to day living that the peasantry and nobles alike seemed so easily accustomed to.  
They had come to the marketplace for supplies, though kept themselves concealed well enough for fear their faces would be recognized. With the Regent King seeking their heads, it was a risk to be anywhere near a large population, let alone the city he himself resided in.  
Traders from all across Thedas gathered in the square to ply their trade and offer their foreign goods. Many nobles and their retinues poured over the contents of their stalls, likely looking for some fanciful, exotic pieces to show off to their wealthy companions. 

While the others sourced supply vendors for the camp’s needs, Morrigan could not help her curiosity, and disappeared into the crowd to find something more interesting. In the more profitable district of the market area there were stalls filled with accessories and fineries that drew in many of the nobles. Golden chains and pretty jewels lay upon folded swatches of embroidered satin, while other stalls held finely tailored clothing of various styles. Morrigan looked over them all, but felt strangely unworthy of touching anything for fear that someone might look upon her with suspicion and think her a thief. Among the cluster of nobles, she would have looked the part. 

Oh but she did long to be like them sometimes, the men and women who could go anywhere and hold an air of respect with them at all times. They could command power with influence, and all for the blood in their veins. Perhaps it was simply idealism on her part to covet what was not hers. During her life in the wilds, she had only once glimpsed such fine things as those that lay here in the markets of Denerim, being casually regarded by those that likely had a dozen or so even finer in their lavish homes, and hardly even looked at them at all. 

As though they knew she was an outsider, the noble women brushed past her without so much as a thought, but there were those that did look, did see her, and it made her feel small. She could have set the town alight if she wished to, she could have burned down the entire market without even breaking a sweat, and she could have taken all of these treasures with no one to stop her. No one would ever have seen it coming.

But she didn’t. 

The deaths of wealthy men would have a force of Templars down upon her, and they did love a witch hunt. If her mother had taught her anything, it was that survival was more important than ones desires. Flemeth was the bane of her existence, but she certainly did know how to survive. 

Instead, Morrigan skulked away from them all, and sought out a quieter spot for her observations. There was a stall that was empty save for its vendor, for everyone else was too fascinated by the jewels of Antiva and Orlais. It contained some pretty little things, though none as fine as the others. One thing did catch her eye, though. Sitting on top of a little wooden box was a mirror. 

It reminded her of something she once possessed, long ago in her childhood. Something she had treasured for the fleeting moment that came before Flemeth’s fury at the risks she had taken to aquire it. 

“Take a look if you’d like, miss” Said the stall vendor, who was too busy counting coins to take note of her appearance.

Transfixed by it, she took the offer, and picked it up with both hands as though it were as fragile as a baby bird. It felt light in her palm, despite the gold and gems that encrusted it. The mirror itself was polished glass, and when she flipped it over, she smiled at the charming little scene of deer and sparrows frolicking in harmony, indented perfectly across the golden frame, set in twinkling emerald stones. She felt like a child again, holding such a precious thing.

“H-how much for this?” she asked tentatively.

The tradesman looked from his coins to the mirror in his hands and shrugged. “fifteen sovereigns. Its pure gold, and the gems on the edging are real Antivan emeralds, coming from the finest mines in the land.”

Morrigan felt her heart sink. She wondered why she had even bothered to ask. All she had to offer were a few herbs she’d gathered, and maybe a potion or two. She never carried currency. She never had any. Apart from the funds of the camp, no one had any for themselves. 

“I can let it go for twelve if price is the issue” the vendor said over his shoulder.

She placed it back on its box with a heavy heart, and shook her head. “no. thank you”

“suit yourself” he said with a snort. “doubt your ilk could afford it anyways”

He wasn’t wrong, but the fact that he knew it angered her. She left the stalls in a hurry and went to find the others. Alistair and Sten carried a few sacks of food supplies in their arms, and Wynne was putting some sewing supplies in her belt pouch. Lynaia was behind them with the coinpurse, paying the food vendor and thanking him for a fair price. She wore a linen headband to cover her face tattoos, for a Dalish walking freely in a thrumming city would never have gone unnoticed.  
They left the city and returned to camp, and Morrigan had no words for any of them. She felt small, insignificant, and her mind was still fixated on the mirror. 

She would never have the air of grace that nobles had. She would always be a nobody, no matter how much her powers grew. 

 

_______________________________________________________________________

 

She was so engrossed in her tomes that she never saw the elf coming.

It was late in the night and most of the party had retired to their tents for the night, save those that stayed up to keep guard. 

A wooden box fell onto her lap, and she almost let loose a fireball in her fright. 

Lynaia stood over her, with a lopsided grin spread across her face. 

“don’t do that!” Morrigan exclaimed, and then remembered the weight on her lap. “what’s this?”

The elf quirked her brow. “look for yourself”

She did, and her breath caught in her throat.

It was the mirror, nesting in a swatch of fine silk as though it were a gift for an empress, not a woman of the wilds.

She looked up and gave her a stern look. “how did you come by this?”

Lynaia kicked idly at the dirt and tapped her nose. “how indeed”

“It was fifteen sovereigns” Morrigan stated in disbelief, daring to touch the glass, as though it would disappear if she did not. “we do not even have that much gold combined!”

it was such a strange look that the young woman gave her, a knowing look that seemed to say more than any words could about the way she perceived the world. “I heard a story of a girl who learned a hard lesson” she said wistfully, as though reciting a bards tale. “who seemed to long for something beyond her reach, and seemed in turn to hold a sadness for the boundary it set.”

“I didn’t ask for it, I would never have.” Morrigan said angrily, for she felt ashamed and elated in the same breath. “and speak plainly for once!”

She was unmoved by her anger, and the strange look did not leave her face. “I saw you smile” she said. “you never smile, but you ought to. I was owed some money so I spent it on something that mattered.”

“What of food?”

“I can hunt if needs be, its no great issue”

“and what do you want from me for this?”

“nothing”

Her plainness was infuriating. Why would she do such a thing? Why would she bother herself with such triviality on behalf of another? Why should she even care?

But despite it all, Morrigan smiled again. Not just for the mirror but the sentiment.

She supposed she should thank her, but how? Words didn’t seem enough. She held the mirror tightly and tried to speak, but it was not easy.

Lynaia shook her head and smiled. “Power isn’t everything, Morrigan, nor is survival” she said with a wisdom that far surpassed her youth. “If something makes you happy, treasure it”

And she was happy. The mirror was beautiful, but more importantly, it seemed as though she had a friend. How strange a thing it was, but it made her feel more important than she’d ever felt before.


	8. Loghain's Atonement, Better times

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Loghain looks to the past, back to the beginning of the journey of atonement he had undertaken following his defeat at the lands meet.

Ten years ago, he would have believed it to be implausible.

It defied all logic for her to be here, seated at the end of his bed, like she had never been gone from this world at all. But she had been gone, dead and buried somewhere far away. The blood served as a grievous reminder. 

The moonlight passed through her incorporeal form, but she looked very much the same as she had in the last moments of her life. Clad in armour stained by fire and blood, with her long hair bound tightly in a braid, her pretty face marred with wounds that seemed as fresh as they day she had sustained them. 

She was hunched over, hands clasped beneath her chin, looking at the wall, unmoving. 

As though she were a beast that might lash out at the first provocation, he refrained from speaking, though his mind was filled with questions.

Lynaia spoke again. “it has been a while” she said in her strange, unearthly voice. “how far you have come from those bloody days, Loghain, only to find yourself here again, on the cusp of war.”

It must have been a nightmare, or a very good illusion. Either way, he reached for his sword. It could not possibly be her. 

The ripple of her strange laughter echoed through the room. “Ever the pragmatist” she said wistfully. “after all you have seen, you have not lost your stubbornness.”

“Forgive me if I find it difficult to comprehend your being here, considering I watched you die” he said staunchly. The thing that looked like her, or was her, was correct on that front. 

“my body is dead, yes” she sighed. “a soul cannot be measured with such ease”

she looked back at him over her shoulder, with eyes that were certainly not her own. “you needn’t fear me, Loghain. I am no threat to you.”

Somehow, he believed her. And he was starting to believe it was her, despite the strangeness of it all. “why are you here?”

He hadn’t even blinked, yet she was suddenly standing, though her feet didn’t touch the ground. “to answer a question”

He let go of the sword. “what question?”

Those dark, deep things where her eyes had once been seemed to look deep within him, so much so that it made him sit bolt upright, as though she had forcefully pulled a secret from deep within him to hold it before him.

“how does it end”

____________________________________________________________________________-

Ten years ago…

He had assumed she was a child playing at war, no better than Cailan.

He had been wrong.

The moment the tip of the spear touched his neck, he was lost. Everything was lost.

Yet something even more unexpected came, as he knelt and waited for the blow that would end it all. 

Mercy.

Now he stood before the wardens, a chalice filled with swirling, dark contents held before him. 

“you are called upon to submit yourself to the taint for the greater good” Riordan placed the chalice in his hands, and stepped back from him. “From this day forth, you are a Grey Warden”

She was watching him. 

She stood by the door, unreadable and expressionless, waiting to see if he would live or die.

He did not hesitate. This was his fate, and he would accept it. There was no other choice. He raised the chalice to his lips and closed his eyes. “I…understand.”

The pain was worse than any sword to ever pierce his flesh. The chalice fell to the floor, its dark contents strangling the life out of him. Neither warden moved as he staggered backwards, trying fruitlessly to fight back the urge to release a cry of anguished pain. If it was killing him, he would die with dignity. The moment seemed to last forever, torturous and unrelenting, until at last, mercifully, the whole world sank into nothingness. 

It hadn’t killed him. Only moments later he awoke, feeling fingers prodding at his brow. When he opened his eyes, she was there, quickly rising when she knew for certain that there was still life in him. She stood, towering above him where he lay on the cold stone floor, devoid of all emotion as she turned to the elder warden. “He lives”

She left them then, throwing the door open and marching down the hallway.  
Loghain watched her go, wondering what she had in store for him now that her victory was secure.

 

_______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Anora was given a meager allowance for her living, barely enough to sustain her. Yet if she was as heartbroken as she ought to be, she certainly didn’t show it.  
Loghain watched his daughter pace about her quarters, making a mental inventory of her belongings. Anyone else might have praised her ability to cope with such a terrible humiliation, but he knew, as only a father could, that inside she was breaking.  
He had failed to protect her in the end, and it was a crushing weight on his heart. As much as he had known that her place as Queen was at risk, he never would have thought she would have been dragged down so far, and all to punish him.

“You could sell my belongings, all of them” he offered, desperate to think of ways to ease the burden for her. “its not as though I have a use for anything now.”

Anora continued her inventory of the contents of her wardrobe. “given that you lived rather simply, I doubt it would do me much good.”

“it would be something at least” he reminded her. “though the estate should be easy to manage with only a few hires. You’ll need a few guardsmen of course, and someone to help you manage the manor. Im sure there are many who would flock to your service. You were their queen after all”

“I know that” She snapped, shutting the wardrobe with a bang. “I will never forget that. Neither will they. This was no ones decision but his, that wretched fool.”

It was true. The nobles new it, but there would be those that were glad to be rid of her. She was a strong and independent voice at court, capable of maintaining order and steadfast in her decisions. This new king would be easily manipulated by the viciousness and tact of the experienced nobility. They would likely milk him for everything they could. They could never have done that with her. 

There was nothing he could say to make it any better, and soon he would have to leave. There was a high chance that this would be the last time he could see her, and that was a cruel fate. She would manage, no doubt, and make the best of it, but she would never be the same. Life at court was her arena, and now she was banished, stripped of all claim to the throne, sent away into solitude by a boy more foolish than her dead husband. 

“When are you to leave?” 

“Tomorrow” he said. “We leave at dawn.”

She looked at him then and he could have sworn she was a child once more, for there was a fear in her eyes he had not seen since he had first left her back in Gwaren, teary-eyed as she clutched her mothers hand and looked up at him on horseback, halted in the courtyard just to reassure her that he would return when his business was concluded. It was the last time he’d ever seen tears in those eyes, for in his absence she had grown fiercer and bolder and didn’t need to hide behind her father anymore. 

“so soon” she breathed, shaking her head.

This time he could not reassure her with the promise of a return. This time she didn’t really need him. It didn’t make it any easier. 

It came as a great surprise when she stood before him, lips drawn tight and brow furrowed. “I want you to know” she began slowly, the words coming to her with great difficulty. “for all that you have done, I do not blame you for this. I know I will hate you at times, but I will not blame you.”

He tried his damndest to show no emotion. She was his strong little girl, and she always would be. They rarely spoke to one another with any sentiment, and it had always been that way. Now, it was harder for him, knowing he might never see her again. “Anora” he began, his voice raw and strained. “I will always blame myself for this. I will never not worry for you, even knowing you can handle yourself.”

She turned her head away from him and covered her mouth with the back of her hand. There were tears in her eyes, but she would never shed them. 

He found it within himself to smile. “Daughters never grow old Anora” he said wistfully. “they remain six years old with pigtails and skinned knees forever.”

Those were the last words he left her with. There was no point in dragging it out any longer. He would go his way and she hers, even if it felt as though the last bit of goodness was disappearing from his life.

The bastard king would pay. He would make sure of it.

 

He’d left his prized armour behind, instructing the guards to inform Anora to take it with her when she left in the hopes she would sell it and earn some descent coin. No doubt it would garner interest, given the history attached to it. He’d taken it from an Orlesian general at the end of the war, and the enchantments alone were of great value. Of course, the most likely interest would not be its efficiency, but its legacy. No doubt Anora would think to ransom it back to the Orlesians. They certainly loved hoard conversation pieces.  
Bereft of his armour, which he had grown so accustomed to, he departed Denerim in a simple set of leather armour, which he’d only worn when he was inclined to hunt, and a light chainmail cuirass. It felt strange not to bear the weight of heavy plate, but he would get used to it over time.  
Warden Lynaia and her companions barely took notice of him initially as they rode out from the city. He received some curious stares, and of course the expected glares from some of them, but the warden herself paid him no heed.  
In fact, she went to great lengths to avoid him. She rode at the head of the party, her eyes on the horizon and nothing else. No one really spoke, and no doubt it was because they were missing one of their ranks all of a sudden. That, in particular, was likely what occupied the warden’s mind the most.  
After all, her relationship with the new king was blatantly announced, or rather, bellowed to the rafters in a fit of rage.  
She would blame him of course. Evidently it was her refusal to execute him that provoked the boy’s outrage. For her victory, it seemed, she had paid a personal price. A harsh lesson, for one so young. He couldn’t help but wonder what would happen when the dust settled. After all, it wasn’t often that two enemies were forced to become allies like this.

Their camp was only a few miles from the road, nestled deep in the countryside away from civilization. It was a descent spot, he supposed. They left their horses to roam the nearby fields, and everyone went about their own business, stoking the fire and piling the wood for later. The old mage Wynne and the Orlesian girl set out the cookpot and busied themselves with preparing an evening meal.  
Admittedly, Loghain did not know what to do with himself. He supposed he ought to wait for some instruction, given that he had absolutely no authority now, but they mostly ignored him.  
Warden Lynaia brushed past him and whistled sharply, and to his surprise, a mabari hound came barreling out of one of the tents. It leapt on her, showering her with slobber as he whined and demanded affection. She knelt and gave the beast a hearty head scratch as it rolled about at her feet. When it had its fill, it leapt to its feet again, and this time caught sight of Loghain. Its ears went flat against its skull, and growled low at the unfamiliar trespasser. He wasn’t surprised, knowing a great deal about Fereldan’s iconic hounds, and remained perfectly still where he stood. The warden gently grabbed its ear, as skilled as an ash warrior in her handling, and pointed to Loghain. “Hamin, Kabal” she said in her foreign tongue, voice firm. “Falon. Eh?”  
Somehow the hound seemed to understand, and ceased its growling, for which he was rewarded with a scratch on a head. It was a fine example of the breed, a strong and bulky male and loyal to boot, it seemed. How the Warden had come into possession of such a creature he was unsure. The Dalish didn’t seem to be partial to hounds. The dog came to him then and gave him a once over, and he presented his hand to him so he could familiarize his scent. Suddenly the thing was filled with excitement again, jumping about and rolling on the ground before him, demanding more attention, which he could not help but smile at as he gave it gladly. He felt the eyes of the elf upon him, scrutinizing and wary. When he stood up again and the dog had run off somewhere to find others to feed him with affection, the young woman nodded in the direction of the tents. “You can take Alistairs tent” she said, wincing as she said his name. “he wont be needing it now.”  
She turned her back to him and opened a crate beside her, pulling out a bottle and uncorking it. Strange. She didn’t look like the kind of person partial to alcohol.

“Thank you” he managed, however strange it might have felt to defer to the leadership of this woman. “Though I would know what exactly you expect of me now, given that you are, in fact, the one in charge.”

 

She raised the bottle to her lips, but hesitated before she took a drink, as though pondering a question far more complex than the one he had asked. There was a long, uncomfortable moment before she answered. “The situation has changed drastically” she said dully, as though it hardly mattered. “I will need to consider it further.”

But she had considered it. He could see it in her eyes. This was not entirely the same woman who had defeated him at the Landsmeet. That woman had faught fiercely and won through sheer tenacity. She’d been his enemy for more than two years, and although they had never encountered one another in that time, he had heard much of her accomplishments. For all of his bluster and confidence, a part of him knew she was a coming storm, a force of nature that would toss him into the ocean and drown him. 

For that, he had thought of her quite similarly to Maric. Now…she seemed more like Rowan, a woman betrayed by a Therin Prince. Like Rowan, she had a responsibility to endure through heartbreak for the greater good. No doubt, as Rowan had, she would grow accustomed to it. She would have to. 

Despite his own plight, he pitied her in a way. History, it seemed, was repeating itself.

“You must think me a monster” he stated plainly. “after all, you keep striking at me, and I refuse to die decently.”

This time she did take a swig from the bottle, a long one, and laughed bitterly. His words sparked something in her, clearly, and she looked up at him with an empty sort of humour flickering in her sea-green gaze. “If I hated you so, I would have killed you. I would have taken your head and strapped it to my saddle so all the world would know that it was I who took your life” she hissed coldly. 

“Then why?” he demanded. “Why offer mercy for the price you paid?”

Though he had not named the bastard king, she seemed to hear it nonetheless. Her hand came up to her stomach as though he had struck her a heavy blow. 

“Because it was the right thing to do!” she exclaimed through gritted her teeth, as though it pained her to say it. 

It was all she had to say. So far as he could tell, she never came out of her tent that night, and in the days that followed, he hardly saw her at all.


	9. Alistair's Redemption, Better times

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Twelve years ago, he had everything he could have wanted. They were young and strong and in love. Nothing could touch them.  
> So how did it go so wrong....

She emerged from the bloodstained wall as though it were a portal, a waygate between the living and the dead.

He couldn’t move. It was as though he were under the effects of a spell, paralyzed and helpless as she lurched forward, her long crimson hair shrouding her face, and the nakedness of her body. The movement reminded him of the bodies of the long-since dead that often roamed in ancient catacombs, possessed by the spirits of the fade. The horrifying sound of crunching bones made him feel ill, even moreso when it was accompanied by guttural gurgling, as though she were choking on a deadly poison.  
He wanted to scream again. He felt as helpless as a child caught in the grasp of a nightmare he couldn’t wake up from. But this was real. It felt even more real than the last ten years of his life. And even though the fear in him was so great, a part of him felt relieved, as though he had been waiting for this for a long time, and never realized it. 

She stood before him, no longer gurgling, no longer accompanied by the deathly sound of crunching bones, and lifted her head.

For a moment, one wonderful, merciful moment, she looked alive. Her face was so sweet, so serene, just like the night they had lain beneath the stars and shared every part of themselves with one another, body and soul. And she smiled a welcoming smile as she stretched out her arms.

“Oh my love” she whispered languidly, still smiling, though her eyes…they were not right, they were not hers. “Do you see me? Do you see how I burn?”

….and then there were flames, terrible and unworldly, that appeared first in the palms of her hands and suddenly engulfed her entire body. Her face twisted and contorted and she threw her head back and opened her mouth, shrieking aloud with an unholy voice that did not sound like anything in this world.

No, that wasn’t right. He’d heard that sound before.

His heart lurched with terrifying realization, one word crying out in his mind above any other….

Archdemon. 

___________________________________________________________________________________________________

Twelve years ago…

 

He’d wanted to do it right, to find the perfect moment to ask her, but every turn of the path had become so fraught with danger that such a moment came. It slowly became apparent that such a time might never come, and Alistair didn’t want to take that chance.

He’d absolutely bungled it regardless, of course, when he’d finally worked up the courage to ask. Rather than doing the clever thing of taking her aside, easing into it slowly through casual conversation, as he supposed any man with a suave nature might have done (Zevran came to mind), he instead blurted it out while they were eating at the fireside, though thank the maker no one else was there to hear it.  
In fact, he’d done it so suddenly that she erupted into a fit of coughing, startled by his sudden, unintentionally loud and graceless conversation opener of “alright! I really don’t know how to ask you this, but here goes!”, just as she had raised her bowl of soup to her lips to sup at the remaining contents. 

Not exactly the introduction to the topic he’d been revising in his head for the last five days. 

Of course, he had to continue. It probably would have been best to just leave and come back when he didn’t sound quite so much like a stumbling simpleton, but he feared he would lose his nerve, as he had many times before.  
If anything, it was even worse than his terrible opening words. He’d managed to insult her at least twice, and gave a terrible apology for both, and broke out in a sweat that was so obvious she could not help but point it out. Of course that gave her the assumption that what he had to say was some dire and serious news, which in turn led to a terrible reassurance that made him sound like some sort of lecherous creep. 

Yet somehow, SOMEHOW, she didn’t slap him by the end of it. Instead, she simply placed the bowl on the ground and clasped her hands on her lap, smiling shyly. “you….wish to bond with me?” she asked, wholly innocent in a way that tugged at his heartstrings.  
It was a strange term, bonding, but the word held meaning amongst elves. He’d heard the young hunter Camen use that term when he spoke of his sweetheart, when they had come across the Dalish elves in the Brecilian forest. So far as he could tell, it was about more than…caboodling, for her kind. When he had asked her about it later, she’d merely stated that it was a commitment, a joining of two souls as one. 

And he did, he wanted that more than anything. She had come into his life in such a strange turn of events, with such a sadness in her pretty eyes, but the very first time she had smiled at him, his heart had swelled with the beginnings of love. It was not the longest time that they had been together, but so much had happened in that time that they had grown close, sharing in one another’s grief and joy. He couldn’t imagine a life without her. Not ever. There was no way of telling how the blight would end, and he would never forgive himself if he didn’t make the most of the time they had. 

 

“where are we going?” he asked curiously, as she led him by the hand from the outskirts of the camp.  
They were walking through a field of tall grass, and only when the camp was out of sight did she stop to answer his question. She was looking up at the moon, and her eyes sparkled as bright as the stars above. “All things of great significance ought to be done beneath the stars.” She said, her voice betraying a hint of nervousness. She looked back at him with concern. “we could start a fire though, if you’re cold.”  
He was, but he didn’t care. It was a strange idea, but it made sense. The camp was small and crowded, and he felt more at ease knowing they would be completely alone, away from it all. Besides, it was a pretty spot.  
His heart was thudding rapidly in his chest. He wanted this, maker knew he wanted this, but he hadn’t the slightest idea of where to begin. He’d never been with a woman before, never had the inclination to either. His Templar training hadn’t left him much time to daydream about pretty girls, and was strict enough to dissuade him from admiring them. Lynaia was different though. Only a blind man wouldn’t see the beauty in her. She was slender and light-footed, but strong like an Avaar. Whenever she wielded her spear, she always looked as though she were dancing. She didn’t laugh as often as most, but when she did, it was melodious and sweet, and over time, he’d learned how to draw that sound from her more often.  
Of course he wasn’t the only one who noticed. He knew she had been courted before, by one of her own kind. Tamlen was his name, but she had lost him to the blight before becoming a warden. it was clear she had cared for him a great deal, but over time she had managed come to terms with his passing.  
“what are you thinking of?” she asked, making him realize he had been lost in his musings for longer than he’d thought.  
“I…nothing, I suppose” he said, already starting to blush. “it’s just that, well…you know I’ve never done this before.”  
She smiled, and there was the slightest hint of rosiness dusting her cheeks as well. “Nor have I”  
It was not hard to see that she was just as innocent. Her previous courtship so far as she had described it had been the innocent companionship of two youngsters barely more than children, and her elders had made them wait until they were old enough to understand the responsibilities that came with pair-bonding. That time had never come for them, and despite his pity for her loss, he couldn’t help but be glad. He wanted to be her first, her one and only.  
Tentatively, she stepped towards him, and placed her hands on his armoured chest. He’d neglected to remove his heavy splintermail before he’d sat down to dinner, and was regretting it now. But when he looked into her eyes, he quickly forgot the inconvenience. She pursed her lips and peered up at him through her long lashes, and she was smiling. His arms instinctively came up to encircle her waist, gently drawing her closer, and bent his head to kiss her. Her hands slid up and around his neck, and she sighed softly as she tilted her head back, allowing him to deepen the kiss. He didn’t have to be afraid this time of overstepping his boundaries. In the past, it ended at this, innocent kissing that had to be broken away from before it could get heated. Now there was no restraint, nothing to hold them back. His hands began to wander, and she pressed herself closer against him in approval. One came to rest on her hip and the other tangled into the thick tresses of her hair, seeking the leather thronging that bound her braid. He was fascinated by the length of it, deep crimson and never once cut since childhood. When it was loose, he smoothed it out with his fingers, and it fell prettily about her face and tumbled down her back. Even through his leather gloves he could feel the softness of it.  
Suddenly, she broke away from the kiss, and looked up at him with a furrowed brow. For a moment he worried that she had changed her mind, but her hand came to rest on his cheek and she gave a little nervous chuckle. “I do not think we are supposed to be quite so well armoured for this” she said, flashing her eyes down at his heavy apparel.  
“I think you may be right” he said, remembering the numerous layers they were both adorned with. “we should probably, um…amend that.”  
She nodded, and to his surprise, she took the lead, her hands deftly seeking the straps of his armour. Her eyes were focused on her task, but he could hear her breath coming faster than usual. Somehow her nervousness put him more at ease. In no time at all, the weight of the splintermail was gone, discarded to the ground and forgotten, along with his bracers and leather gloves. Her fingers came to the hem of his shirt, and he raised his arms so she could pull it over his head. She tossed it aside too, and her eyes fell to his bare chest, and grew wide with obvious appreciation.  
Alistair knew he was handsome, but the way that she looked at him made him feel a swell of great pride with the knowledge that he pleased her, and hers was the only opinion that mattered. It emboldened him, enough that he reached for her before she could consider what remained of his clothing. “Your turn” he whispered, his voice thick with longing.  
He wanted to undress her with the same grace as she had with him, but his fingers all felt like thumbs. She was patient with him though, and helped him with the task, whispering encouragement as she did so. “I want you to see me Alistair” she said, slowly shrugging out of her leathers. Beneath the armour there was only a loose, flimsy soft hide shift, and with the gentlest touch, it slipped from her bare skin like silk. “All of me”  
She kicked off her boots and nudged them aside, unlacing her trousers and easing them down her hips. His breath caught in his throat as she stepped out of the last of her clothes, and he beheld her, every part of her, for all that she was.

Maker, but she was beautiful. So beautiful he felt unworthy of standing in her presence. The moonlight caressed her milky skin, illuminating the silvery lines of her tattooed cheeks, and made her look as radiant as a goddess. Her long crimson hair shrouded her shoulders and tapered down her spine, ending at the swell of her shapely behind. Her willowy fingers came up to cover the crude scars that ran across her collar bone and ribs, and in her eyes he saw the self-consciousness of a woman who could not see the sheer beauty of herself when she cast her eyes to the ground. She’d faced down scores of darkspawn without fear and never shied from a fight, always fierce, always strong, never wavering. But here she stood, vulnerable in her virginal shyness, unsure of herself in a way that tugged hard at his heart.  
“Don’t” he breathed, putting his hands on hers and gently easing them back, as though to cover herself in shame was sin itself. “You’re perfect. You’re so perfect, every part of you.”  
He kissed her again with gentle reassurance, and again and again until her hands were upon his chest, touching and exploring his skin with sweet curiosity in a way that made him shiver with delight. His own hands traced the curvature of her spine, longing to caress every inch of her, taste every inch of her, feel every inch of her. He wanted to possess her and be possessed by her. Her body pressed against his and he felt the vibration of an appreciative hum upon her lips, and he knew she wanted that too. She opened her mouth invitingly and his tongue sought out hers, desperate to sample her sweetness. Her fingers caressed the nape of his neck, urging him gently to follow her as she laid herself down on the soft grass. It seemed like a wonderful eternity had passed, in which they had simply lain together there, enjoying the uncharted territories of one another’s bodies, the cool, echoing breeze of the night joined by the sounds of their soft sighs and pleasured moans. He felt drunk with the hazy pleasure of it all, his hardness rubbing against the confines of his trousers insistently.  
The female body was such a mysterious thing to him, but when his hands trembled and the nerves began to overtake him again, she drew his hands to her lips, and laid soft, loving kisses upon each of his fingertips until they were still. “Hush” she whispered, gazing up at him with encouraging warmth. Her hands strayed to the laces of the only layer of clothing that remained between them. “On this night, there is no one but us. Don’t think about the rest of the world, it doesn’t matter now.”  
She brought his hand downwards, to the most secret place of her body, nestled between her thighs, and spread her legs to give him better access while she pushed his trousers and smallclothes down, freeing his swollen length from its confinement. His head dropped into the warmth of her neck and he groaned with pleasure as her tender fingers wrapped around him, touching him in a way he had rarely even touched himself.  
The rest of the world did indeed begin to slip away. His instincts, his longing, took over, and he touched her, stroked her with the gentleness she needed, savouring the beautiful sounds of her hungry little mewls, noting her reactions and stowing them away in his mind so he would always be able to draw such wonderful sounds from her. Her luscious hips bucked in a jerking motion when he ventured inside her with a finger, and he could feel the wetness there that reflected her pleasure. Her willowy fingers continued to stroke him into ecstasy, until he forced himself to pull away from her, already too close to the edge.  
For a long moment he hovered over her naked form, braced on his elbows so she didn’t have to bear all of his weight. 

This was it. This was the moment he had dreamed of for so long, and she lay there in the perfect silence, her eyes hazy and dark as she waited with anticipation for what was to come. He felt the sudden weight of responsibility as he gazed down at her, his brow furrowing with worry. “I don’t want to hurt you” he said with a frown.  
Her perfect breasts rose and fell as she slowed her breath and reached up to touch his cheek. “I know” she whispered, tracing his lower lip with her thumb. “There will be some pain for me, but it will pass. I want this Alistair, I want you.”

And Alistair, who had never truly been wanted at all in his life, felt at that moment that he had never known what happiness was until he had heard those words from the woman he loved more than life itself. 

He groaned in surrender and dropped his forehead against hers as he pushed into her. Her body tensed, but her fingers cupped his face and she held his gaze determinedly, despite the shock of the invading sensation that made her eyes grow wide. He moved slowly, meeting the resistance he had expected, and pushed further still through the tightness of her walls until she gasped, and tears welled up in her eyes. The sight of her pain made his heart break. He stroked her hair and planted butterfly kisses along her cheek, her eyelids, her neck, and just as she had said, the pain went away for her and her body relaxed. He gave her a moment to adjust to his girth before he moved again, and she tilted her pelvis to welcome him deeper until he was fully sheathed within her. The sensation was indescribable. 

It was as though the world had simply ceased to be. He utterly lost himself within her and clung to her as though he would fall away into nothingness if he dared to let go. And in return she clung to him, and they were two souls holding on for dear life amidst a sea of turmoil, rocking and swaying in perfect rhythm. He had never known it could be so intense. He was no longer Alistair the unwanted bastard of a king. 

He was hers, and she was his. 

Her soft sighs elevated to joyous cries as she dug her fingernails deep into the hard muscles of his shoulders. Her head fell back and he felt her tighten around him. “Alistair!” she cried out, shutting her eyes tightly and shuddering violently in his arms.  
He growled, a purely masculine sound that came from somewhere deep within which he had never known was there, and buried his head in the swell of her breasts as he moved harder, faster, the tightness in his stomach building until, at last, sweet release came, and he spilled his seed deep within her with one final, deep thrust.

For a long time they simply lay there in the grass, holding one another close, unmoving save for the rise and fall of their chests as they struggled to catch their breath. He felt like he could weep for the joy of it all, but there was no strength left in him to do anything but sink into her embrace and savour it for as long as he could. 

 

She’d lain her head upon his chest and curled up against him, and within minutes, her eyes had grown heavy and she was asleep.  
Even the majesty of the stars paled in comparison to the sight of her there, nuzzling her head against him and breathing softly. He watched her contentedly, smoothing away the sweat-soaked crimson tresses that fell about her rosy cheeks. She looked peaceful, unhindered by the restless nightmares of Archdemons, and he was glad of it.  
The maker must have loved him greatly to give him such a gift. He would treasure it always, and even if he died in the war against the blight, he would die a happy man thinking upon this day, and all the days they had shared.  
When her eyes finally opened again, she smoothed a hand across his chest and sought his own, entwining her fingers with his. “Your future and mine, they are one now” she whispered dreamily. “Promise me, Alistair, promise me you will always be here, with me.”

He didn’t need to think about it, not even for a second. “I will, Lynaia. Always.”

Nothing would keep him from her, not the Blight, not the traitor Loghain, not the burden of duty, and certainly not the crown.


	10. Lelianas confession, The Final Days

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> -*WARNING: Triggering material contained in this chapter, readers discretion advised*-
> 
> In the days following the Landsmeet, Leliana witnesses a sight that will forever haunt her nightmares.

Nothing was ever the same after the Landsmeet.

Of course everyone tried to carry on as they had before, but there was no life in the camp anymore, no real joy. They had been the romantic characters of a heroic tale, the untouchable product of idealism that fates hand could never touch.  
But there was a force more destructive than fate, and that was reality. The dream was over, and the burgeoning weight of real life was laid heavily upon their shoulders. It was not only the impending battle that weighed heavily on their minds, but the loss of one of their own. Alistair was gone, and no one felt that more than Lynaia. 

It had all been perfect for them. They had hidden their love and then they had embraced it, and from that day on, it was a steady fixture to see the pair of them by the fireside, huddled up together, intimate and unashamed. Of course they were teased relentlessly for it, but it never shook them. They were both radiant in their love, and Leliana began to think of them as though they were the King and Queen of their own little court in a world that would always be Summer, blooming with life and beauty. It hurt.  
Of course it hurt. Lynaia was filled with joy, and glowed in her pleasure, making her shine more beautifully than ever. Leliana could only pine away her unrequited love in the privacy of her tent, and try to shut away her true feelings. It became easier over time, but it never truly left her. Every time she heard that sweet ripple of laughter, or that secret smile that was only for him touched her lips, it felt like a knife in her chest. She tried not to hate them, she tried so hard, but it was impossible. Oh, but she loved them both for their perfection, but hated it all as much in turn. 

There was no laughter now, though. All at once the wonderous tale had turned to ash and ruin, and all they could do was try to pick up the pieces and move on. Lynaia became withdrawn and spoke to no one unless it was absolutely necessary. They remained there in the wilderness for two months to plan their course of action, visited by ambassadors of the amassing forces and preparing supply wagons for the days to come. They were in the eye of the storm, with nothing to fight and nothing to kill or distract.  
Lynaia looked like a ghost of her former self. She never bothered to bind her hair, and sometimes didn’t even comb it. Her armour was never donned, and instead she wore a simple blue linen dress over a grey cotton underdress with a belt that never seemed to be buckled correctly, always missing a loop and sagging down to her hip. Her once lovely eyes bulged from terribly sunken sockets, rimmed with red, and somehow she looked both emaciated and plump simultaneously, for her face was taut while the rest of her seemed to have widened. She ate only a little, and drank ale once in a while, but never made it her refuge thankfully. The food never seemed to agree with her no matter what though. Often after a meal she would sit hunched by the fire, pale as death, with her hand on her belly as though she were about to vomit. She spoke mostly in disjointed phrases, and never held a full conversation for long. At one point she had turned to Leliana and tried to smile. “I miss the music you used to play, Leliana” she had said wearily, as though thinking of better times. “it was so sweet”  
Leliana had asked if she would like her to play for her again, but her eyes were upon the flames of the crackling fire, and no more was said that night.

The others took notice, and while they sometimes spoke of it with concern amongst themselves, they tried to keep their worries quiet, agreeing that she was dealing with a great heartbreak, and ought to be left to deal with it in her own way. Loghain was the shadowy reminder to them all of what had transpired, and he looked like some wild wolf forced to behave like a domesticated animal. Of course he didn’t approve of the shared decision.  
The only one who she kept close now was Kabal, and the hound would lay his head across her lap and stay there for as long as she sat and trudge alongside her when she went to her tent. Even he had lost his bouncy nature, as though he were in mourning too. 

She was trying so hard to keep her head held high, to look unaffected, but it seemed as though the effort was sapping the life from her. 

 

There came a time not long after when Leliana knew she needed to get away from it all at least for a short time, just to find relief from the tension that layered the air around the camp. So she made the poor excuse of gathering firewood, even though there was thunder in the air and rain would likely come soon.

There was a long stretch of woodland adjoined to the fields, and it seemed a good enough spot to clear her head. Most of the trees had lost their leaves, but the branches were so tightly knit that the moonlight barely touched the ground.  
She found herself wandering further into the dark depths, with only her torch to light her way. 

Dread had been building inside of her for some time as if there were something monsterous lurking in the darkness, watching for the perfect moment to close its maw around her. It chilled her bones, and no matter how many steps she took, it seemed to follow close behind. Her breathing grew ragged as her heart pounded in her chest. She focused her eyes on the light cast by the torch, and for some unknown reason, she had started to whisper the chant of light under her breath. 

Then came a sound, quiet at first but growing louder, from somewhere in the darkness beyond the comforting light cast by her torch. It sounded like an injured animal, or a dying one…but there was something else to it, something that drained all the blood from her cheeks and made her shudder. 

She’d wanted to run away from the camp, some part of her didn’t want to come back, but now she wanted to run to it like it was the only sanctuary that could save her from something she couldn’t even perceive. Her mind screamed “Turn away! Turn away!”, but her feet didn’t listen. She kept walking, walking towards that dreaded sound, and then she was running. 

She only stopped when she came to a slope. Even before she reached it she could hear the sound of a rushing river below. The recent rainfall had caused it to flood, and it was swelling over the embankment. Her heard lurched painfully when she glimpsed a flicker something white near the waterside. She prayed to Andraste that it was a deer, that perhaps it had been trapped in the mud and injured its leg, that she could go and help it free and it would stagger off into the wilderness and she could return to the camp and breathe a sigh of relief that her fears were for naught. 

But it wasn’t a deer. 

It wasn’t an animal at all. 

It was Lynaia.

Leliana was suddenly skidding down the treacherously muddy embankment. Her foot was sucked into the dirt and she had to wrench it free with much force, but she couldn’t stop. Lynia was kneeling, hunched over herself as though she had been badly injured, Her dress caked in dark mud and her white little feet completely bare. And she was moaning that long and dreadful moan that echoed as loud as the rumble of water. As though her legs had been weighed down by more than mud, she went to her, her heart beating so fast she thought she might feint, and when she reached her she stumbled forward into the dirt. “Lynaia…what…what…”

She hadn’t heard her. She was clutching herself tightly, rocking back and forth, weeping and moaning like an anguished banshee. There was blood on her bony fingers as they clutched at her own forearms frantically. “Venavis….venavis!” she wept into her arms. “ma’len…ma….len”  
Though she could not understand the elven words, she knew she needed to help. She needed to try. With some great push of courage she managed to place her hands on the shivering elf. It felt like a horrendous nightmare she could not scream enough to wake up from. Lynaia’s hands went down to her stomach in a series of lurching movements, and the source of her pain became horrifyingly clear. Her thighs moved apart and there it was….a huge, grotesque pool of blood, spreading out across the mud-stained lap of her woollen dress. Lynaia howled out her anguish and tears streamed down her deathly pale cheeks.

It wasn’t real. It couldn’t be real. It was time to wake up now. Leliana screamed internally, willing her mind to let her escape from this horror. 

She hadn’t just been pining for the loss of Alistair. Oh, but how could she not have seen that? How could no one have seen that?

“we…we need to get you back to camp…we have to….we have to…” The words sounded idiotic, numb, and she hated herself for her inability to do something to stop it. “Wynne can help, or Morrigan, or…”

“N-no!” she groaned, her eyes shut tightly through her pain. 

But Leliana wanted to leave her to a mage and be away from her. Seeing her like this, reeling in torturous pain for nothing but the want of love, made her feel as though her weak moments of hatred towards the two of them had caused this, had brought some terrible curse down upon their love. 

But she’d never wanted this. Maker preserve her, not this. Never this. 

All she could do was remain there in the muddy embankment, holding the grief stricken girl by her shoulders as her little body writhed weakly and cried. There was no comfort for her, nothing to warm her, nothing to soothe her, nothing to take away the pain of it all.  
It seemed like hours had passed before it ended. Lynaia’s head dropped back against her shoulders and there was a sudden flood of blood rushing from between her quivering thighs, and something else that Leliana could not bear to look at. She gave one last, pitiful and heartbroken cry, and then her eyelids fluttered and she was still. For a dreadful moment she thought she had died, for she lay there, unmoving and limp as if she were. But there was still a heartbeat, however weak it was. 

It was starting to rain. She felt the first droplets on her face, and they mingled with the tears that she had numbly shed in silence throughout the ordeal. Soon it began to pour, as if Andraste or the elven gods or both had looked upon them both in pity and sent the storm to wash away the evidence that it ever happened. Lynaia, even in weakness, hauled herself upright and began tugging at the hem of her skirts. “We have to go” Leliana whined, frantically wiping the rain from her eys. “you…you need rest..”  
But Lynaia would not obey. She was whimpering like a beaten dog as she ripped at the bloody material until it gave way, and tore off a chunk of it to wrap up the mass of scarlet as the rest of the blood trickled away into the water. “I have to bury it” she sobbed. “I…won’t…I won’t….let it…”  
Leliana forced herself to be strong, for her sake, even though it was shattering her heart. Lynaia, driven by some fragment of desperate maternal instinct, Hauled herself up along the embankment by one hand, while she clutched the thing to her chest. She was at her side, understanding her need to do this dark task, and helped her as best she could to rise above the merciless and unstable ground to the shady copse above where the ground was not so unforgiving. Together they dug, with nothing but their hands, and buried the mass of bloodied rags containing the last remnant of Lynaia’s joy. 

The deed was done, and both of them knelt there in the rain, trembling from cold and fear, and they prayed. They prayed although it felt too cruel a fate for any of the Gods between them soothe. Lynaia’s eyes were empty and wide as she whispered her elven words through her sobs, and Leliana’s were nothing to her now but something to keep her teeth from chattering. When the prayers were done, Lynaia whispered something. it was so quiet she had barely heard it, as though she were not trying to whisper it aloud, but to someone else who was not there. 

"I would have named her rose"

She stumbled to her feet, and tried again to get Lynaia to stand. Her hollow eyes were ever on the pitiful little mound of dirt. She would die out here in the cold, but of course she wasn’t thinking of that. Leliana had to lift her from the ground instead. She had to get back to the camp. She had to get her to a fire so she did not catch her death. It was not so difficult a task to carry her. She was as light as a child in her arms, and Leliana’s legs worked by instinct to get her back to the camp. It was late enough that there was no one there to see her slip through the tents and find Lynaia’s tent.  
Once she had gotten her inside, she went about the task of helping her remove her wet clothing without any concern for her own. Lynaia was shivering violently, but her skin was unnaturally hot when she helped her into her shift. There was a great sense of morbid irony to the act of undressing her like this, when she had longed to do it before so many times. Thankfully, the rain had washed away the worst of the dismal mess. Lynaia said nothing as she did it, for her eyes stared off into nothingness, unblinking, traumatized.  
Leliana took the blanket from her bedroll and wrapped it carefully around her shoulders, biting her lip to stop herself from crying again. She had to leave her to her rest now, but Lynaia took her hand in her bony white fingers before she could make to leave, and looked at her with great desperation. “I beg of you Leliana” she whispered. “For all the love you have borne for me, do not leave me now.”

How much she had desired to here those words in the past, when things were good and happy and the world was theirs for the taking. It seemed cruel to hear them now, at this time, when she had given her love to another and now paid the price for it. But she had no more strength to hate the cruelty of that fate.

She stayed, and held here there in her arms as though they had been lovers for years, weeping against her hair as she smoothed it under her palm with a shaky hand, whispering again and again, “Lynaia, im so sorry. Im so sorry”

 

____________________________________________________________________________________________________________

She had let Lynaia cry out her grief against her shoulder until the sun rose and she had no more tears left in her eyes to shed. 

The elf now seemed so small and fragile, a shadow of her former self. The dark circles beneath her eyes made her look much older than she was. At some point, she had pulled at her hair, and there were noticeable clumps of it between her fists. 

Neither of them slept, and soon the sounds of the rest of the party readying themselves for the day renewed her sense of dread, knowing that she would have to face them and act as though she had never witnessed the nightmare of the night before. 

With all the gentleness she could muster, she let go of Lynaia and rose unsteadily to her feet.  
“You need to rest” she whispered numbly. “I’ll tell the others you have taken ill, and ask that they leave you be.”  
Only then did Lynaia look at her. “I will be up within the hour” she said mechanically. “Tell no one anything.”  
Leliana shook her head defiantly. “You cannot!” she gasped. “You need to recover. You could kill yourself by trying to carry on as if this did not happen.”

It was a cold look she gave her, as though she were angry at her lack of understanding. “I must” she said, but it was the Grey Warden in her that spoke, not the woman who was grieving for so great a loss. “I must because it is my duty. The war will not halt for my sake.”

They were courageous words, but wholly wrong in her mind. Leliana, knowing she could convince her otherwise, could only resign herself to that fact. 

The woman she had loved, the sweet dear creature that had run with her through the woods and protected her from her unfortunate past, was dead and gone, buried in the woods with the grizzly remains of her heartbreak.

All that remained now was the Grey Warden. The dutiful thing that lived only to hunt the Archdemon and end the Blight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Elvish translation:  
> Venavis-stop!  
> Ma'len- My child
> 
>  
> 
> This was an incredibly difficult chapter for me to write, so much so that i almost left it out. the topic is something that has always terrified me, but I felt it only right to include it and give my Warden the depth she deserved. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy this story, and if you've read this chapter I thank you greatly. 
> 
> "In peace, vigilance  
> In war, victory  
> In death, sacrifice"  
> \- Grey Warden Creed


	11. Morrigan's regret: The Final Days

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Following the Landsmeet, Morrigan notices a transformation in Lynaia, accompanied by some strange behaviour.

Lynaia had become a most elusive creature in the days that followed the Landsmeet. The reason was obvious, despite how foolish it seemed to her.   
If not for the fact that she was had been such a steadfast friend to her, she would have said it to her face and told her to get over it. But she was hurting, and Morrigan thought it best to say nothing of it. Apart from Sten, whom she vehemently believed felt nothing at all, and Loghain, who seemed too old and experienced to give a damn about such trivial matters, everyone else was treating her like a child who had fallen and skinned her knee. There were times when she acted like it, too, eating barely a morsel and hiding away in her tent. Sometimes she could here the whimpering, and on one occasion, the hours and hours of sobbing. It was a little bit pathetic, in her opinion, but she supposed some women did that when they lost the ones they cared for. It was a good reminder of why she herself chose only to lie with a man for a selfish pleasure when the opportunity arose, a bit of fun and then a fast farewell. Perhaps a few years living under Flemeth’s roof would have put that lesson into her mind. 

Oh, and how fat she had grown in that time! Morrigan had thought her a pretty little thing in her own elven way. There was rarely such thing as an unattractive elf, and they were so often admired by human men for their exotic nature, but Lynaia had become so doughy and tired looking. No doubt she had given up on trying to look pretty because there was no man in her life to enjoy her looks, but the spinster look did not suit her well. 

Naturally, she was not displeased by the replacement of Alistair. At least Loghain was marginally more pleasant to look at. He didn’t bounce around like a giddy pup and make pointless remarks like that blonde idiot had. He was far more somber, and quieter by a longshot, never seeking the approval from any of them. Most of the time, he kept to himself and generally fussed over the dog when it wasn’t pining in the tent of its master.

Only twice had Lynaia come to her in the two months that followed the Landsmeet, once for something to help with sleep, and again a few weeks later for a batch of poultices. When she had asked what they were for, the elf simply thanked her and left. She supposed it was for the supply crates being sent to Redcliffe, but it was strange that she had specifically asked for both concoctions to contain no blackroot or rashvine.

In the time between both of her requests, she seemed to have lost the weight, though, and looked a little better. The colour was starting to return to her cheeks, but she was never quite the same as she had been before. Morrigan couldn’t really tell whether that was a good thing or a bad thing. While she had at least started to put some effort into looking like she was capable of taking control again, she never seemed to smile. She was almost as bad as Loghain for all the frowning she did. 

She was eating more often, and when she sat at the fireside, she always seemed to have a map or a list of some sort on her lap. No one commented on the sudden change…

…but when someone did, they paid for it. Lynaia made sure of that.


	12. Loghain's atonement: The Final Days

It had been a slow moving two months, too slow for his taste. He’d become a Warden and yet there were no Darkspawn to kill and nothing but the occasional visit from diplomatic envoys of the allied forces to distract from the monotony of the situation. He wasn’t surprised that when the rest of them had started speaking to him that it wasn’t for pleasantries. There was curiosity, and then there was scathing questions and bitter remarks. The old mage Wynne, whom he vaguely remembered from Ostagar, was the worst of them. It didn’t particularly phase him to hear the words “how dare you?” or “You are a monster!”.  
He knew his crimes well enough, it merely surprised him that none of those remarks came from the Warden herself, accompanied by an accusation of “I lost Alistair because of you!”. He hadn’t believed her for what she had said when they had last spoken, and she hadn’t spoken more than a few words to him since. In fact, she’d hardly spoken to any of them. Unless there was an important matter to attend to, she spent most of her time in her tent. On the nights when he found himself unable to sleep, he’d heard the weeping, and rolled onto his side, shoved his fingers in his ears and cursed under his breath. He was long past the days of pitying weeping women, especially those pining for Therin men. 

It was becoming harder and harder to believe this woman had actually defeated him at the Landsmeet. She had fought him with such ferocious fury blazing in her eyes, barely even flinching when he’d struck a blow to her with his blade. Before that she had managed to find every aspect of his guilt to announce it to the nobles, and even escaped from prison following the assassination of Arl Howe.  
Now, she shambled about the camp like a drunkard, disheveled and run down, hardly caring how it might have looked to others.

It made him angry, and it made him even more angry at himself for having lost to her to begin with. If she couldn’t even run a comb through her hair, how could she ever lead them to victory against the blight? Worse still, there was nothing he could do about it. No one would follow him now, not after he’d lost his command and his reputation was in shambles. And that simpleton of a King would never allow it either. 

He was a Grey Warden, yet he had absolutely no idea what that meant. The only thing he had learned was that the title came with nightmares. The Archdemon seemed to taunt him more than it unnerved him. Ever a man of logic and too old to change, it defied his very nature to think that any army could not be eliminated solely through sheer force and tactical advantage. 

The only person who could convince him otherwise was a catatonic mess who walked like a ghost through the camp and hardly spoke a word that was not complete nonsense. 

 

The situation had changed so fast that it genuinely caught him off guard.

He had been sitting at the fire, feeding smoked boar to the dog, Kabal, the only one who didn’t look at him with either agitating curiosity or vitriol. Admittedly the hound was a good companion, though he was not quite so lively when his master had gone downhill. She probably hadn’t noticed how much the poor thing was feeding off her emotions. He perked up at Loghain’s side though, and snacked hungrily on the little treats he gave him. 

The Warden appeared from her tent, and he was somewhat relieved to see that she was at least wearing armour this time. She came to the fireside and sat down without a word, sniffing at the cold air, and started to fill a wooden bowl with the contents of the stew pot. She looked…different. Something about her had changed, he knew it from a cursory glance, but he was not quite sure what it was. 

It was then that the Qunari came out of nowhere, marching towards her with fierce determination in his eyes. “Warden!” he bellowed, and his sword was in his hand. 

Her brow quirked. She stopped spooning the stew into her bowl and glanced over her shoulder. 

Sten loomed over her, a giant compared to her petite frame, and pointed his blade at her neck. The others were on their feet before she was, though Loghain did not. Something was about to happen, and he was curious. “Stand up!” the larger man growled furiously. “Stand up so I may cut you down!”

Despite himself, Loghain put a hand to the sword at his hip. The Qunari were not known for being predictable, but this was not something he expected.   
To her credit, the warden showed no fear. She looked up at him as though she had been waiting for this, and waved away anyone who attempted to step in to intervene. “You have taken some issue with me” she said, a statement more than a question. 

Sten showed his teeth then, a vicious snarl on his hard features. “I told you a woman had no place as a warrior” he spat. “You have abandoned your cause for your own selfish reasons. You are a weak creature, and I would put you down for it.”

For a long moment they stared at each other. Her face was an unreadable mask as she stood up. “I see” she said, heaving a great sigh. She reached out a hand to the weapon rack that sat outside the supply tent, and without looking, she had picked up her iconic spear. “if you want to cut me down, I’ll die with a weapon in my hand, friend. In the field there, unless you’ve some issue with the tents as well.”

The Qunari grunted as she led the way. Of course they all followed her. Leliana was at her side, and he could here her frantic attempts to convince her to end it with words. The warden brushed it off, as she did with anyone else who had anything to say. Loghain felt as though he was missing some vital piece of information. She was being openly threatened by a companion, yet she was taking it as though it were a regular occurrence. There was purpose in her stride, a similar purpose to the way she had walked when she had come to depose him. 

There was no sizing each other up. There was no careful examination of odds. The two of them laid into each other like wild dogs fighting for territory. The Qunari struck much quicker than he might have expected for someone so wide and tall. Lynaia whirled about and dodged his blows, snarling when he tried to close the gap. Both of their weapons had range to them, but she was at a disadvantage with only her leather armour to protect her from any incoming blows. Sten lashed out at her relentlessly, but she had launched into a confusing display of acrobatics, her feet hardly touching the ground. Loghain was appreciating the unusual opportunity to examine her fighting style in one-on-one from a distance. He could see the same tactics she had used against him, the way she only struck back to keep a good distance between them, trying to wear him down. He could see the mistakes he had made in their fight as well, and although the hindsight was unpleasant, but he could also see why he had made them to begin with. The spear had a curved blade for a tip, a true elven weapon, better for slicing than piercing, but she had tied a strip of green cloth around the place where the wood joined the steel, and affixed a little bell to it. It was the perfect distraction, and the Qunari was falling for it, just as he had.   
He struck and he missed, aiming for her torso when he should have been aiming for her legs. One sweep of her legs and she would have been knocked prone, at the mercy of a killing blow.   
“You want to kill me?” she screamed at him. “Then show me my place! Strike me down!”  
Only Leliana reacted to it, clasping a hand to her mouth as though she believed she meant it. Loghain knew better. She was baiting him, and in response, his fury grew and his strikes became heavier and slower. Now she was pressing the offense, pushing him back with perfect footwork and clever evasion tactics. Her eyes were blazing and focused while Sten’s were wild and furious.   
His greatsword swept the air in front of her and she arched her back to avoid it and went to her knees. For a moment time seemed to slow to a halt. She would die there if the Qunari’s next blow landed, for her spear was out in front of her and there was nothing to protect her head….

But the blade of the spear struck upwards like a serpent and bit into the weak point of his underarm, and the blade fell to the side, leaving its wielder unarmed for long enough that she could hook his leg and drag down his weakened arm until he was on his back. She didn’t stop there. She was on him then like a brawler, her spear cast aside, and she was reigning down brutal blows to the giant’s thick skull. “Do not dare to question me!” she spat. “I am a woman of the wildlands, where men know better than to dispute a woman’s place in war! You will take this lesson and remember it the next time you dare to challenge your leader.”

Once the message had become clear enough in her mind, she stopped, and the Qunari lay there on the ground, his face bloodied but otherwise still living.   
The warden stood up, wiped the flecks of blood from her face, and turned to the rest of them. “If any one of you share his doubts, come forward” she said challengingly, the spear back in her hand. 

No one did. 

If Loghain had any remaining doubts, they were disbanded when she turned her eyes to him and crooked a finger. “and you, old wolf. I think its time you learned how to be a warden.” 

He was impressed, very impressed. It seemed to be a miraculous turnaround in her personality, and it suited her greatly. 

 

Sten, despite his injuries, looked a great deal more content after their fight in the field. He grumbled a bit while the old mage saw to his wounds, but she was firm with him and chastised him if he complained. 

Everyone else seemed shaken, but certainly more motivated than before when they went about their tasks. Oghren, the dwarf, continued drinking, and raised his flagon in a toast of respect to the Warden while she finished her stew. “Ahh, sodding good fight there, missy” he said with a slur. “knocked that big bastard right on his ass!”

She regarded it with a curt nod and tossed her bowl into the pile of dirty dishes, grabbing a quiver of arrows from the weapon rack and slinging it over her shoulder. “come on” she said, gesturing to Loghain as he was fixing his shield to his back-sheath. “We’ll not need the horses. There isn’t far to walk”

She gave no instruction as to where they were going, or what to expect. They simply trekked through the fields in silence until she came to an abrupt stop, holding an arm out to halt him. “I didn’t ask to be a warden, you know” she said, her head moving as though she were sniffing the air. “I was blighted beforehand, and the joining was the only thing that would stop me from dying. Duncan took me to Ostagar, it was my life for the price of becoming one. If you’re looking for some speech about the integrity of the wardens and how they ought to carry themselves, I cant teach you that. There wasn’t exactly time to learn those lessons for myself.”

He snorted disdainfully, expecting that was meant to be a jab at his previous actions. “what’s this exercise all about then?”

She glanced over her shoulder at him. “I was given a task before my joining. I was sent out into the Kocari wilds to hunt the darkspawn and take their blood” she continued. “you were given no such task. I expect you think it much the same to fight them now as you might have before, but you’d be wrong.”

“How so exactly?”

“because now you have an advantage” she said. “tell me, what do you feel right now?”

He blinked, confused by the question. He felt uneasy, but he didn’t know why. She looked at him sternly until he answered. “a sense of unease, I suppose.”

She nodded. “good, now focus on it, and tell me again when something is different.”

He grumbled, frustrated with her riddles and the way she looked at him like he was a fresh-blooded solider. Nonetheless, he did. He had to close his eyes for a moment to hear it, but it came to him eventually. First, it was his heartbeat. Then it was his and hers….and then there were others, though he couldn’t make out the number of them. “something nearby”

“how many”

He shrugged. “less than ten, more than five.”

She nodded again. “There are seven. Two Hurlocks, six Genlocks, and a Shriek.”

He raised a brow at her precise evaluation. “and that precision comes over time I take it.”

“No” she shook her head, and tapped the point of her right ear. “A tactical advantage. Which direction are they coming from?”

He didn’t need to think of it as much this time. “Due west of here, coming up the slope.”

“Aye” she said in agreement. “they haven’t seen us yet. Crouch low, we can catch them off guard.”

Now he could see the reason she had brought the bow as well as the spear, though he was suddenly wishing he had brought one himself. He had been briefed enough times back at Ostagar as to what should be expected from the variations of Darkspawn. The shriek was the only one to really worry about due to its speed. The rest were standard infantry. 

It would have been impossible not to recognize her Dalish heritage for the way she skulked through the grass, silent as a shade, eyes like a hawk and an arrow notched and ready to fire. The Darkspawn were trudging up the hill, loud enough that the senses weren’t needed now. Once they were in range, she sprung from the grass and loosed the arrow. It hit the shriek right between the eyes, and the thing wailed as it fell backwards, alerting the rest to their presence.   
He didn’t wait for an order, and she didn’t stop him when he made the charge, shield and sword in hand. He met the Genlocks first, and cleaved through them one by one before he moved on to the larger ones. One of them managed to nip him in the side with its blade, but he took its head off with a single strike, and sliced the other one through the torso until it fell upon its beheaded companion and grew still.

He had to admit, it felt invigorating to fight like this again. It had been a long time since the Orlesian occupation, and he had been too busy supervising Cailan at Ostagar to see any of the combat there. He thrived better in battle, and it felt as if some of his age had been lifted away by the simple exercise. 

It only occurred to him afterwards that Lynaia had stayed behind to watch. She strode towards the corpses and surveyed his work with a nod of approval. “only a skirmishing unit out to pick off wanderers I should think” she said appraisingly. “but not bad”

He could have laughed at her insolence, if not for the fact that it was an endearing quality. “ I take it that ive passed your little test then?” he asked, sarcastically. 

“I didn’t doubt your ability to take them out” she said, furrowing her brow. “but at least now you know how to utilize the warden senses before the real fight comes.”

She had begun to drag the bodies into a pile, and produced a small bottle of oil from her belt pouch. “bring the rest over here. Blighted blood will lead to blighted wolves if they aren’t burned.”

She poured the bottles contents over the shriek that lay on the top of the pile, and used some flint and tinder to set them aflame. For a time they simply watched the bodies burn, though for her it seemed she was seeing something there in the fire that he couldn’t, for her eyes were staring intently at the flames. “You should go back now” she said distantly. ”I’ll return soon myself.”

He didn’t hesitate to question that. She seemed intent on something that wasn’t any of his business. 

He did look back once though, before she was completely out of sight, and it was the strangest thing…

….she had knelt there by the flaming corpses of the darkspawn, a small, sharp rock in one hand, and her long, unbraided hair in the other. She was shearing away the length of it on the left side from the scalp, and throwing the loose, untethered lengths into the fire. 

By the time she had returned to camp, not long after him, both sides had been shaved, and the mid section had been cut by at least half of their original length. There were crude little cuts where the rock had had bit into the scalp, but she looked as though it had eased a great burden from her. 

“Why?” he asked, when no one else did. 

She shut her eyes and smiled an empty smile. “because he loved my hair. “

It didn’t take much to wonder how her mind was working at that moment, and something about that made him smile.


	13. Alistair's Redemption, The Final Days

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At the Landsmeet, Alistair makes the decision he never dreamed he would have to make, with dire consequences for all.

Alistair had watched Lynaia fight countless battles. Darkspawn, werewolves, soldiers, she could do it all, and never once had she wavered. Even here in Denerim she had been imprisoned and stripped of her weapons, threatened with torture and worse, and still she fought with the ferocious fire she always had. The soldiers who had entered her cell were intent on inflicting a woman’s worst nightmare upon her, and she had torn them to shreds with her bare hands and left the bars of her cell drenched in blood. Even during that macabre display of her fury, he was left in awe.  
Nothing could touch her, nothing could stop her, and not even Loghain could defeat her. She’d crushed any hope of victory the old hound might have held the moment she had entered the Landsmeet. With Anora’s support and the approval of the court, she struck a heavy blow with words alone, and not even the great general’s skill in combat had been enough to salvage him. 

Lynaia stood before the assembly of the most influential people in Ferelden, the tip of her spear pressed warningly against the neck of the fabled Hero of the River Dane, and their victory was secure. All that remained was the killing blow and this sorry chapter of their tale would finally be over.

She flicked the tip of the spear upwards so the blade was pressed against the base of his chin. “Rise” she said coldly, and the battered Teyrn complied, rising unsteadily to his feet. He was in bad shape, his face bloodied from the fight. The wound that had brought him down-a deep gash to the back of his left thigh-was oozing blood that was already staining his polished steel armour. 

“I underestimated you, Warden” he said through gritted teeth. “I thought you were like Cailan, a child wanting to play at war.”

It was clear that Loghain could barely managed to stay on his feet. Like any man about to face his execution, his head was bowed and his words were directed at the floor. “I was wrong. There is a strength in you ive not seen since Maric died.”  
His shield and sword clattered against the floor when he dropped them. Lynaia lowered her spear and the Teyrn of Gwaren looked up from the floor with a pained expression etched into his hard features. “I yield.”

Alistair might have felt pity for him. He might have, if not for all of his treachery. For Duncan, for Cailan, and for every innocent who died at Ostagar, all he could feel was impatience. Whatever heroism this man had shown in the past didn’t matter. He was a murderer, and he deserved death. Alistair couldn’t even bring himself to hate the Darkspawn as much as this traitor. All it would take was one final, killing blow, and he would be sated. Like an eager pup he was pacing back and forth, waiting for Lynaia to perform the execution….

 

…but she wasn’t moving. She looked like an actor suffering from stage-fright. Alistair shot her a concerned look, and to his horror, he saw her eyes were wide with shock and her mouth was working as though she were attempting to say something. Had she been struck harder than he thought? His stomach tightened with dread. It felt as though something terrible was about to happen.

 

“I….i accept your surrender” she said, and for the first time, he heard a nervousness in her voice. 

Somewhere in his mind, it felt as though a pane of glass had shattered. It wasn’t shock he saw in her eyes. 

It was sympathy.

This wasn’t happening. This couldn’t be happening. He dug his fingernails into his palms as if the action would rouse him from a bad dream. Lynaia, perfect, beautiful Lynaia, would never do this to him. She must have hit her head, perhaps she was disoriented, or suffering from a concussion.  
He didn’t remember moving towards her, yet there he was all of a sudden, at her side, with his hand on her, fingers digging insistently into her forearm, as if he could rouse her from her madness. “I didn’t just hear you say that” he hissed, his voice not sounding like it was his own. “You’re going to let him live? After everything he’s done? Kill him already!”  
She tore her eyes away from Loghain for a moment at looked up at him with a fearful expression. His grip on her was tight, probably painfully so, but he couldn’t let go. The entire court was silent as they stared at each other. “You don’t have a choice here, Lynaia. He has to die” he said firmly.  
She nodded emptily. Mercifully, he saw her hand gripping the spear more firmly. “I don’t have a choice” she repeated, her voice hollow. 

Her gaze fell upon Anora, who was frozen in anticipation for what was to come. There were unshed tears glistening in her steel blue eyes, like those of a terrified child. She was looking at her father, who simply awaited the verdict with his head held high. Lynaia looked very much as though she were about to be sick. Only when both hands were firmly placed upon the spear did he let go of her arm and step back. 

“Just make it quick, Warden.” Loghain said, sighing as he lowered his head in resignation.

Lynaia mouthed something that looked an awful lot like “Forgive me” when she brought her spear back in preparation for the killing blow.  
Already Alistair was beginning to feel relief. They’d finish this ugly business and go back to camp to resume their preparations for the coming war. Of course he would forgive her for her momentary hesitation. Of course this wasn’t an easy task. They would speak no more of it and spend another night in one another’s embrace, filled with contentment and unburdened by fears of separation. Everything was going to be fine….

He was so intent on watching the spear as it hissed through the air that he wasn’t sure if the first sound he heard was Anora’s scream, or the sudden intruding voice that shouted “WAIT!”

 

The spear tip connected with Loghain’s exposed neck, only just. The sudden intrusion caused Lynaia to halt it before it shed a single drop of blood. Loghain didn’t so much as dare to breathe, frozen like a statue.

Alistair cursed under his breath. Riordan appeared as if from nowhere and pushed through the crowd. “There is another option!” he said, his tone calm considering that he was panting. Alistair felt about ready to run someone through with his sword, so great was his growing rage, and he wasn’t quite sure if it was to be Loghain or Riordan for his sudden appearance. Worst of all, Lynaia seemed relieved by it. He’d never asked her what she would do when it came to this momentous decision, but he’d assumed there wasn’t a question. He was regretting that assumption now.  
Riordan gently nudged the spear aside and came to stand between the two of them. “The Teyrn is a warrior and general of renown. Let him be of use. Let him go through the joining.”

Lynaia furrowed her brow. It felt as though she were standing over a gaping chasm that Alistair could not reach, and she was wavering. He wanted more than anything to grab her and pull her back before she did the unthinkable. “would it work?” she said, narrowing her eyes at the Teyrn. “considering his loyalties…”  
Maker, what kind of a question was that? Why would she even consider it? Alistair found himself staring hatefully at the senior warden as though he were no worse than a snake intent on injecting her mind with venomous ideas. “What does loyalty matter?” Riordan exclaimed. “We are what we are. The joining binds us to the darkspawn. You know this. If you were to forswear your oath today, you would find yourself in the deep roads or the blight lands, given time. You’d seek them out. Or they would seek you.”  
Anora leapt to her father’s defense like an eager pup. “the joining is often fatal is it not?” she reasoned desperately. “if he survives, you gain a general. If not, you have your revenge. Does that not satisfy you?”  
The question was directed at Lynaia, but she was obviously set on thinking it through. 

Something inside of him snapped. 

Any order she had ever given he had followed without a second thought. But this…no, he would never allow this. “Absolutely not!” he shouted, barely restraining himself from reaching for his weapon. “Riordan, this man abandoned our brothers and blamed us for the deed! He hunted us down like animals. He tortured you! How can you simply forget that?”

Maker, how much he felt like a child. the entire throne room felt ten times bigger than he was and it only fueled the hateful fire within him. And when Lynaia finally found her words, she may as well have drove a knife into his heart.  
“Riordan is right” she said. “we should put him through the joining.”

Anyone would have thought she were struggling with the idea of putting a starving dog out of its misery instead of a man guilty of war crimes. How much he loved the way her mind worked, how she could look down a forked path and see a better route through the wilderness that ended up better than both of the obvious choices.

This was not one of those times. This was weakness. And the trait that he loved so much was twisting into something that he now despised. 

“Joining the wardens is an honour, not a punishment” he protested. “name him a warden and you cheapen us all! I will not stand beside him as a brother, I wont!”

it wasn’t just an opinion. It was an ultimatum, and it was breaking his heart to have to lay it before her. Feeling the weight of his words, she went to him and dropped her spear to the floor so she could take hold of his arms. It seemed for a moment that her eyes, her wide and trusting eyes, meant she had heard him. But she was shaking her head in a rueful way that dismissed the idea entirely. “Alistair” she whispered, the sound of his name on her lips bittersweet. “We need all the help we can get if we are to defeat-”  
“Loghain is a traitor” he spat angrily. “We need him like we need to be stabbed in the back! Or have you forgotten how his being a great general didn’t help the last time?”  
He was staring intently into her eyes, searching desperately for some sign that she was taking in his words, but it felt as though a great precipice was forming between them, and the bitter realization came to him that the woman he loved was about to say the words that would destroy whatever love that lay between them forever. 

No. 

He would stop this. Even if it meant giving up what he held most dear. If she was going to betray him like this….he would strike the killing blow, to their relationship, and to Loghain. There was only one way to do that. His arms came up to her shoulders, and his heart was twisting painfully when her eyes brightened with hope…

…he pushed her away from him, hard, so hard that she reeled backwards and almost fell against Riordan before she steadied herself. “I still don’t want to be king. I still don’t…” he said, his jaw clenched tightly. “but if that’s what it takes to see Loghain get justice, then I’ll do it. I’ll take the crown.”

There was an audible, unanimous gasp from everyone present, all the way to the back of the hall, but he barely heard it. His cold, empty gaze rested solely on Lynaia. All the blood had drained from her face and she had grown deathly pale, a strangled cry catching in her throat. She was holding her stomach as though he had just delivered a heavy punch to her abdomen. Oh yes, she knew what that meant as much as he did, and while it gave him immense pain to say the words he had, he also took a sick kind of pleasure in seeing her so stricken by them. 

“You can’t…” she gasped, shaking her head in disbelief. 

He’d promised her. He’d promised her the crown would never come before her. She could have asked for a pound of his flesh or all the gold in Orlais and he would have given that and more. But he would never, never do what she asked of him now.  
Eamon, ever having tried to coerce him onto this path, interjected swiftly before she could even attempt to pull him back from it. “yes, he can” He said firmly. “He is Maric’s sole living heir, a claim more valid than Anora’s. it cannot be disputed.”

Lynaia shot the Arl a hateful look, her eyes red-rimmed as though she were fighting a losing battle with her own sentimental tears. Eamon hadn’t liked the idea of the two of them being together, and unlike before, Alistair was not rushing to disparage his words. 

“Alistair..” she said pleadingly, her voice thick with emotion. “don’t do this, I beg of you…”

She tried to close the distance between them, but this time he did draw his sword, and held it up to halt her before she could get close enough to crumble his wavering resolve. There were tears streaming down his own cheeks now that he did not remember shedding. “Alistair” she whimpered. “its me. Its your Lynaia. You promised…”

“you did this” he said hoarsely. “you, of all people. I always knew I didn’t deserve to be happy”

Even with his sword separating them she was still intent on reaching him. to his horror she had gripped the sharp edges of it with both hands, and despite how it was cutting into her palms, as if she would push it back at the cost of her own fingers. “it doesn’t have to be this way.”

Nonetheless, seething with rage and pain, he wrenched it back and made a threatening gesture when it was freed from her grip. There was a single trickle of blood on its edge. “No” he spat. “if you are too weak to do what must be done, then I will. You lost whatever we had when you made your choice. Don’t you dare try to make this my fault. I’ll take my birthright, and perhaps I’ll find a queen who will be less treacherous than you.”

The noise that erupted from her quivering throat was a pitiful one, but he was long past the point of pity now. Part of him expected she would cry openly or fall to her knees. Instead, he saw her eyes change, and they were starting to mirror his own intense hatred in a matter of seconds.

“If that is your wish” she hissed, her chest heaving as she held back a sob. “Then I invoke the right of conscription. By the true and rightful law of the Grey Wardens, granted this right during times of war against the Darkspawn hordes, I officially lay claim to this mans life, that he may partake of the joining ritual and swear fealty to our Order. “

 

She struck back at him with the last arrow in the proverbial quiver, and it worked. Those words were powerful enough to overturn the decisions of even the highest ranks, and she must have taken them straight from the documents they had discovered back in the Kocari Wilds. 

He was shaking, hating himself for forgetting that authority, and her for using it against him. Her wide, slanted eyes were burning a hole right through him, and even now the reality of his decision, and hers, was beginning to truly set in. Tearing his eyes away from her, he cast a cold, sharp glance at Loghain. The son of a bitch was safe from a royal execution, safe from anything he could do against him.

But Anora wasn’t. 

“Then my first order as king” he proclaimed loudly, with a mad sense of satisfaction. “is to exile the former Queen to her homestead of Gwaren, where she will live out the rest of her days as punishment for her Father’s many crimes, and the hand she played in them.”

“No, you cannot do this!” Anora cried, looking around her for someone, anyone to come to her aid. 

Only Loghain himself let loose a roar of outrage. “you dare?!” he bellowed furiously, about to launch himself at him, but Riordan was quick to hold him back. “You traitorous bastard!”

The court was in an uproar, but there was nothing they could do. Alistair felt the tremendous weight of kingly authority for the first time, tasted it, and it felt good. 

Lynaia, sweet and treacherous Lynaia, looked as though she were a tiny and pathetic creature that could scarcely touch him now. Part of him was still aching from heartbreak, but that part of him seemed to be dying away rather quickly. 

Loghain might have escaped from the death he deserved, but Alistair knew in his heart of hearts that he had defeated him with his declaration, and it would leave a festering wound that would never be healed.

What happened next was a blur. The world around him seemed to be spinning rather violently. The wardens, who he would now never call his brethren, and the friends he had come to trust who he would probably never travel with again, departed from the throne room before Eamon had even begun his affirmation of unity in the coming battle. 

Alistair could only stand there like a dumbstruck fool, as the weight of his hasty, rage-fueled decision began to devour everything he had been before. 

He didn’t feel anything now. No rage, no pain. Just emptiness, endless and all consuming.


	14. Leliana's confession, Redcliffe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With the battle against the Archdemon looming ever closer, the party journeys to Redcliffe. Leliana observes the changes in Lynaia since the terrible night in the woods.

Leliana had never in her life seen a formation of elves like the one before her. The clan they had come across in the Brecilian forest was miniscule by comparison, and given that they had been in a state of crisis, also not quite so intimidating. But these Dalish elves were armed for war. Every one of them was outfitted with a sturdy set of armour, a splendid and ornate mix of greens and browns, and colourful robes beneath. In their hands were spears and blades that resembled Lynaia’s own weapon of choice. Almost all of them had longbows strapped to their backs, almost as long as their lithe bodies. Their strange land-ships were parked behind them in the clearing, and bright red flags fluttered in the gentle breeze.  
They had gathered their forces and left their individual clans to answer the call of the Grey Wardens(or Warden, as it were), and though there was likely less than two hundred of them, it was certainly an awe-inspiring sight to see them all at once. Lynaia had told her once that the Dalish only gathered en-masse once every ten years, to share their knowledge and celebrate together in places hidden far away from the human populous. No doubt they felt It was a great honour for one of their own to be leading them now to war.  
Lynaia addressed them in their own language, her hands moving in strange gestures as she stood at the center of the semi-circle they formed, and they were listening intently. It was a sea of tattooed faces, young and old, but Leliana and the others were standing to the side of the assembly, unable to follow the elegant tongue of the elves. Only Wynne and Leliana observed the goings-on, though Zevran had closed his eyes as if he were making a rather serious attempt at understanding it, and something about that made Leliana smile. Loghain, however, looked visibly uncomfortable, and stood as far away as possible. She couldn’t help but wonder if this wasn’t the first time he had seen a gathering like this. He didn’t seem to treat elves with much more than indifference, though there had been one occasion where he had voiced a rather offensive opinion about the elves claim to the land. Unbeknownst to him, Lynaia had been listening from the doorway of her tent as he debated the point with Sten, and the conversation had come to an abrupt end when she upturned a bucket of water over his head. She had said nothing, and beyond that given no reaction, but when she sauntered back to her tent, everyone around the campfire erupted into a fit of giggles at the sight of the fabled Hero of the River Dane shaking the water from his drenched hair like a dog emerging from a river. It had been the first time that anyone had laughed for months, and as though it were some sort of initiation rite to their little traveling band, Loghain had received a little more acceptance from then on.  
Lynaia had made use of his military prowess on more than one occasion, and many nights had passed in which the two of them would sit by the fireside pouring over maps and documents, barely uttering a word unless it was regarding troop movements. There was certainly an unspoken sense of mutual respect between them, but it reminded her less of the kind one would expect to see between an officer and subordinate, and more like that which was held between a married couple long past their years of love and romance, for there was almost a domestic undertone to it. Leliana had found it a curious sight to behold. Wynne, on the other hand, disliked it immensely. One day when she had returned from the market of a nearby village, she had sighted the elderly mage inside the supply tent with Loghain, or rather, cornering him, and stalled outside to listen, her curiosity piqued by the scathing tone of Wynnes voice.  
“What do you think you are playing at?” she was whispering accusingly. “She may be young, but she’s no fool.”  
When she risked a peak inside, she saw that Loghain was standing before her with his arms crossed, eyes narrowed in suspicion. “Madam, I have no idea what you’re trying to suggest. Speak plainly.“ he scoffed derisively. “You wish to accuse me of something? Then do it.”  
“Oh I have many things to accuse you of, Loghain Mac Tir” Wynne hissed. “I should hardly know where to begin. For the moment, know only that I am watching you. Don’t think a few friendly words to the warden will put her off her guard. Maker knows she has lost enough because of you.”  
She heard Loghain snort again. “Forgive me then, if I don’t lose sleep over her poor choices” he said. “And I can assure you, Wynne, I’ve no intention of trying to seize authority over this war effort.”  
Leliana had to strain her ears to hear what Wynne said next. “That is not what I mean, and you know it.”  
“A crude and baseless accusation if I ever heard one” He said coldly, but when he had brushed past her and emerged from the tent, he looked visibly tense, much like a man with something to hide.

 

This was not the first military gathering they had seen, but only one of several they had attended on the road to Redcliffe. The first had been an assembly of soldiers dispatched from Denerim, followed by the mages of Redcliffe, and then the Dwarves of Orzammar. For each one, Lynaia had diligently spent nights alone, planning what she would say to them all, and ensuring that the supply crates were well stocked to be deployed when the assembled troops departed. The Legion of the Dead had gone ahead to Redcliffe and would be spoken with upon their arrival. However, for the meeting with her own kind, she had no need to prepare, and it was evident from the confidence with which she spoke now that she was glad to be amongst those that understood her best. The only understandable signal that the speech had finished was the tapping of many spears against the ground. It was a tremendous, thundering sound, joined soon by the sound of unanimous, impassioned chanting. Suddenly the elves were dispersing, most returning to their land-ships while some stayed behind and carried large pieces of wood to the center of the clearing, likely for a bonfire. Lynaia shared a brief conversation with two robed elves carrying staves before she returned to her travelling companions.  
“We leave for Redcliffe tomorrow” she said when they gathered together. “Tonight, we break bread with my kinsmen, and discuss the tactics for the coming battle. You will all be welcome to attend.”  
Her gaze fell upon Loghain. “As a Grey Warden, I expect you’ll keep your personal opinions to yourself.” She said tersely. “for you’ll be joining me during negotiations.”  
Loghain frowned and offered a resigned shrug. “as you wish.”  
It was the first time she had ever extended such an invite to him. When the others left to tend to the waiting supply crates that would need to be handed over soon, Leliana took the opportunity to take Lynaia aside. She hadn’t spoken to her alone for several weeks, and it felt too strange to her. “how are you feeling, Lynaia?” she asked concernedly. “I haven’t had the chance to ask since-“  
“As well as can be expected” she cut her off swiftly and turned her back to her. “The armies are almost ready to march, and in even greater numbers than expected. Once the Archdemon has surfaced, we go to war.”  
There was no power to her words, no passion. Leliana couldn’t help but think upon the times they had shared in the forest, when her eyes were filled with mischief and her lips were always quirked at the side as if she were holding back the urge to grin. Even though her back was turned to her now, she knew there was only coldness in those eyes, and a permanently frozen expression of sternness. Ever since that dreadful night in the woods, she had been all steel and sharp corners.  
No wonder she seemed to find such ease in Loghain’s company all of a sudden, for like the winter’s chill and the mountain’s snowy peaks, they seemed just as cold as one another.


	15. Morrigan's Regret, Redcliffe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Upon their arrival at Redcliffe, Morrigan reveals her long concealed plan, and Lynaia makes her choice.

Morrigan observed some curious things on the road between Denerim and Redcliffe. Most of it she had seen in secret, having taken on the form of the raven to avoid suspicion. Given that she had always kept a healthy distance between herself and the rest of her travelling companions, it would have seemed strange for her to be taking a sudden interest in Warden Lynaia’s daily activities.   
She didn’t wish to do it, for although it was for the purpose she had been tasked with from the very beginning, Lynaia had been good to her, trusted her, and it felt wrong to betray that trust now.   
But there was no choice. She may have learned long ago not to trust all that Flemeth said, but on this occasion, there was little choice. The words were written and cemented in the Grimoire, and there was no disputing it. And besides, Flemeth was dead. Even if she had given Morrigan the task for her own personal satisfaction, she was hardly going to gain from it now.   
Whatever powers were to be wrought, would be wrought only by Morrigan herself. Even if Lynaia had been good to her, there was no denying that was to be gained would be more important than friendship and trust…as surprisingly difficult as that was to imagine. 

The first thing she had observed was that it would be harder to convince the elf of her plan now. As glad as she was to be rid of that fool Alistair, he had his part to play in it as well, an important part…so long as the two of them were still dedicated to one another. And they weren’t, at least not as far as he seemed concerned, and Lynaia’s feelings on the matter seemed rather hard to read. There was heartbreak for certain, but what else that remained had yet to be revealed. 

The second thing she had observed, much to her surprise, was that in her transformed state, she had grown more accustomed to spending time with the camps newest addition. From a cursory glance, as well as being the casual opinion of the others, it seemed a relationship of necessity. Loghain was a tool that could be utilized for tactical use. Lynaia often sought his advice for troop movements and stratagem, and he was a decent warrior when there was a fight. On the odd occasion there were arguments or debates, but while others might have dismissed it as commonplace, Morrigan had observed more than once a flicker of satisfaction or aloof amusement in one or both of their gazes afterwards, as though they were purposely trying to get antagonize each other. It was curious behavior, and perhaps alone it was not much in the way of evidence, but sometimes, believing himself unobserved, she had seen Loghain’s steely eyes fall upon the elf, and there was certainly approval there. It was strange to see in a man that looked as though it had been a lifetime since he had so much as glanced at a woman with any sense of lust. Though Lynaia certainly had some sense of allure about her at times, especially now that had lost the blush of innocence, and it was likely that the men of the camp had taken notice, especially given that she was now unattached. Lynaia, for her part, showed nothing in the way of interest beyond that subtle look of satisfaction during altercations. Her eyes were ever downcast, pouring over maps or reading letters. Only once, when Loghain had taken an arrow to the shoulder, did she take him aside and tend the wound. It was hardly an act of affection, but she didn’t seem to despise him enough to see him suffer. It wasn’t much, but it was something.   
If by some chance, there were some sense of mutual affection between the two of them, respectful, friendly or otherwise, perhaps it needn’t be Alistair to play a part in this plan at all. Morrigan considered the possibility, and it certainly seemed more appealing by far. Though she kept those thoughts to herself nonetheless, for a wrong word could end the chance entirely.   
Instead, she continued to observe in silence. Lynaia seemed entirely dedicated to the war effort, but the closer they came to Redcliffe village, the more she was showing signs of nervousness. If the name Alistair was so much as whispered by anyone, she would find a reason to be gone from the camp under the pretense of gathering firewood, or hunting, and always alone. 

______________________________________________________________________________________

When they finally did reach Redcliffe, they found the town once again under siege.  
It was a large force of darkspawn, and the royal entourage were already struggling to maintain control. Their arrival seemed to be well timed. Together with the assembled forces, the darkspawn were pushed back. It wasn’t a difficult task, despite the numbers, and likely it was only a scouting band. While the soldiers gathered the bodies of the creatures into piles for burning, Lynaia, having gone ahead of the rest of them to deal with the bulk, returned to them supporting herself with her spear, her right leg raised off of the ground. Loghain, who had been busy wiping the congealed dark blood from his blade, cursed under his breath and sheathed his weapon. “Maker’s breath, what have you done to yourself?” he barked angrily.   
“It’s nothing” she said dismissively. “Just twisted my ankle ducking away from an Ogre’s charge. The ground was too uneven on the hill to avoid it.”  
Despite his grumbling, Loghain slid his arm around her waist. “Wonderful. Perhaps you could try not to injure yourself right before the real battle begins?” he said tersely as he guided her to the rocks nearby, ignoring her protests. Morrigan still had enough mana to heal her up, but she refrained from telling them that. 

The closer they got to each other, the better, so far as she was concerned. 

As though fate had decided to lend amusement to the situation, it was then that the future King of Ferelden had come up the hill, at the very moment that Lynaia’s dainty foot was cupped gently in the hands of his greatest enemy. 

The expression of jealous fury on Alistair’s face was priceless when he caught sight of them, and Loghain was too busy expecting Lynaia’s swollen ankle to notice him standing only a few feet away. But Lynaia had noticed. Morrigan could practically hear her heart skip a beat when she saw him. 

There it was. Love. Only a flicker, as though she had forgotten what had transpired previously, before her expression grew guarded again. Sickening, but perfectly convenient. 

“Perhaps you ought to have a mage look at that” Alistair said through the gritted teeth of a forced smile. 

As if it had been an order, she withdrew from Loghain’s touch and looked to Morrigan, who could help but smile mischievously as she sauntered over to her. Loghain kept his eyes low, but the angry expression on his face made his thoughts clear. No doubt it took a great deal of willpower to keep his blade sheathed, given what Alistair had done to his daughter. Morrigan needed only to touch the injured ankle for the briefest moment before the swelling subsided. Lynaia tested it on the ground before she rose to her feet. With her head held high, she walked towards the man who had once been her faithful lover, and when she stood before him, and Loghain had skulked off to rejoin the rest of the assembled companions, Alistair’s angry features softened. There was distance between them, enough that no one might have thought they had ever meant much to each other. He was clad in golden armour that shone brightly in the midday sun, but it seemed to sit uncomfortably upon his shoulders.   
“I….it is good to see you Lyn-…Warden Lynaia” he said awkwardly, waiting a moment as if expecting her to respond. when she gave no response, he cleared his throat and continued. “Eamon is at the castle. He wants to…to speak with everyone regarding the battle as soon as possible.”  
Lynaia focused her gaze on the castle and nodded. “Good.”  
“And Riordan wishes to speak to you afterwards, I believe, and…” he made a faint gesture at Loghain without looking at him. “Him as well.”  
Again, Lynaia nodded. Alistair began to fidget on the spot, toying with the straps of his splendid gauntlets. “Perhaps we could speak in private….you know, when everything is dealt with.”  
Lynaia shrugged carelessly. “Time permitting.”  
“Of course” Alistair said, disheartened. 

 

The short walk to the castle was a tense one between them. In the past, they would have been hand in hand, shoulder to shoulder, unperturbed by the curiosity of passersby. Now there could not have been more of a gaping maw to separate them. 

Nonetheless, Morrigan spied the lingering remains of the love they had once shared, the love they were both fighting back relentlessly.   
It was almost time to come clean. Morrigan was confident that this would end well. 

Not for them as much. But for her, most definitely.

______________________________________________________________________________________

 

She stayed away from the official meeting, and while the halls of Redcliffe castle were relatively empty, she slinked away and found Lynaia’s quarters. The room had a chill to it now that evening had set in, so she lit the hearth with magic, and remained by it to warm her hands. 

Already she was much aware of what was transpiring, and whatever was being discussed in the main hall was none of her concern. The part she had to play in this coming war was not something that would ever be discussed by armies of men in suits of iron and steel. It was not something discussed unless it had to be, and that was why only now would she speak of it. Because now it was necessary. 

Soon, Lynaia would be made aware of why that was. Riordan wanted to speak to her after all….so of course he was going to tell her the price that came with slaying an Archdemon. The price few but the wardens themselves knew of, unless they were aware of the dark magics that lingered in the most ancient of records, or in the most ancient of minds. 

And once Lynaia knew that price…..no doubt it would be easier to sway her. 

Of course Morrigan had known from the beginning. It shouldn’t have eaten away at her as it did to keep that knowledge from the woman who gave her nothing but trust, but it did. Of course it did. Her fingers was unconsciously clasping the little golden mirror, the one Lynaia had given her….just because it made her smile.

Before the tears in her eyes threatened to escape, she shook her head, willing them furiously to go away. This was good. It was for the best. It would ensure that they survived. It was the right thing to do because Lynaia didn’t deserve to die, and didn’t deserve to lose anymore than she already had. 

Yes. It was right, most definately. Just because Morrigan would gain something for herself didn’t change that fact. 

When the door opened behind her, she clenched her fists, and waited. 

“Morrigan….what are you doing here? Is something wrong?”

She turned then, and looked at the trusting face of the woman who had done what no one else ever had…treated her like she mattered, just because she was herself. 

“I am well” she said, more a reassurance to herself than Lynaia. “’Tis you who is in danger…as you no doubt know.”

The suspicion crept along the elf’s smooth features like the roll of mist over a mountain. “you know” she said. A statement, not a question.

“I have a plan, you see. A way out. A loop in your hole.” She began. “I know what happens when the archdemon dies. I know a Grey warden must be sacrificed, and the sacrifice could be you.”

She walked towards her, and took one of Lynaia’s tense hands in her own. She had no need to pretend she was concerned, because she truly was. “I have come to tell you this does not need to be”

The elf tried to tug her fingers away, but Morrigan held them firmly. She had the right to be suspicious, but she would understand the gift that it was she was offering. “It is a way out” she continued. “For all the Grey Wardens. There need be no sacrifice.”

This time, Lynaia wrenched her fingers away, and her large, pretty eyes were narrowing like those of a beast sensing danger. “you knew about the Archdemon all along, didn’t you?”

“I did.”

“So what of this plan of yours?”

Good. She was listening. Now, she simply needed to hear. “What I propose is this: Convince Alistair, or Loghain, to lay with me. Here, tonight. And from this ritual a child shall be conceived within me. The child will bear the taint…and when the Archdemon is slain, its essence will seek the child like a beacon.”

Lynaia turned away from her, as though she couldn’t bear to hear her words. “at this early stage, the child can absorb the essence and not perish.” Morrigan continued, knowing that she was still listening despite recoiling in such a way. “The Archdemon is still destroyed, with no Grey Warden having to die in the process.”

She was bracing her hands over the fireplace, hunched over the fire. “And the child?”

“It will be transformed” she clarified. “become something different: a child born…with the spirit of an old God. When this is done..i will walk away. you will not follow. Ever. The child will be raised as I wish.”

There was a long pause before she responded again. “You want me to convince one of them to do this.”

“Correct. No doubt they would be more compliant if it were you.”

There was another long pause. This time Lynaia was not answering. Morrigan could not tell if it was because she was thinking more upon the offer, or something else. “Consider the alternative.” Morrigan pressed. “If Riordan fails, do you think Alistair will hesitate? See sense, Lynaia! He still loves you! However you may try to conceal it, you love him too. And if not him, Loghain. For all that you gave up to save him, he’ll die nonetheless. Ask yourself…can you live with that?”

Still there was no answer. Morrigan reached for her, desperate to make her see the validity of this route she proposed. “and…more than that,I would not see you die. Above anything, I would do all I could to prevent it. Do not let your pride condemn you now, Lynaia. You asked for none of this, especially not the sacrifice that is now demanded. All I offer is a way out. Please, consider it.”

Her shoulders were shaking. Morrigan touched her shoulder in the most comforting manner she possibly could….

The dagger came from nowhere, and it was in her hand. The other hand was suddenly clasped around her throat as Lynaia flipped around and pushed her back against the wall. Her eyes were filled with a fire that burned as bright as the embers in the hearth. “Traitor” she spat, the hateful tone as harsh as a slap to the face. “You knew. You knew all this time! God’s damn you Morrigan, I trusted you!”

Morrigan struggled against her grip. She didn’t so much dare to let loose the instinctive magic at her fingertips. There was so much hatred in those eyes now that it left her stunned, and worse still, there were tears. “Your words are utter poison” Lynaia gulped back the surge of grief-stricken tears. “I thought I had swallowed enough poison, endured enough betrayal in these past two years! You would conceive through such foul magic…a tool?! A child’s life is sacred! Never, never even for the most noble purposes, would I allow this, not so long as I still draw breath!” 

Morrigan tried to shake her head, but she was struggling simply to breathe. “You…will…lose much…if you don’t…”

“I will die!” She screamed, inches from her face. “God's know enough of me has died already for this war. That creature is my death, and I am his! The choice is clear as day!”

In one swift motion, she flung Morrigan as far away from her as possible. Clutching her bruised throat, Morrigan glared back at her with as much Ire as she could muster. “Then I will not stand by and watch you waste this opportunity! Die, if you think it worthwhile, or lose all that you have gained. I care not!”

“Leave” Lynaia said coldly, through her gritted teeth, her shoulders heaving. “Leave now, and do not return.”

Morrigan, shaking with fury, marched speedily to the door. “Fare ye well, Warden Lynaia. Should you live past the morrow, I trust it will be a life of regret!”

In the shapeshifted form of the wolf, Morrigan fled from castle Redcliffe that night. 

That was the last time she ever saw Lynaia alive.


	16. Alistair's Redemption, Redcliffe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alistair seeks out Lynaia, hoping to put things right between them.

The Archdemon had finally surfaced, and at its behest the horde was following close behind. If there had been doubt of the true nature of this war, any doubt that this was not a true blight, it was quickly washed away when the word of Denerim’s siege spread quickly thoughout the land.   
Even before the bloodied messenger stumbled into the great hall, as the gathered forces discussed their plan of action, Alistair had felt it. He may have cut his ties to the Order, but his blood was still tainted, and when the great dragon took to the skies, the vicious and terrible call had resonated in his very veins .   
It was the worst possible outcome, for as the assembled armies had travelled west, and prepared to face the Darkspawn horde out in the open, the Archdemon had led them right into the heart of the capital city. 

Their time was up. They would have to march at dawn, and there would be no rest, for the fate of the kingdom was at stake, and the stakes had been raised higher than anyone could have anticipated. 

Alistair felt it was a cruel mockery, a curse from the Maker himself, for his decision to take the crown. Ever since the Landsmeet the guilt of his actions had been foremost on his mind. He hadn’t wanted any of this, he still didn’t, but his need for vengeance had possessed him entirely, and he had allowed it to. Eamon had tried to reassure him as best as he could, but even surrounded by people, and despite the few moments he now had to himself, he felt more alone than ever. There was no one to turn to, no one he trusted enough to confide in. All those who rejoiced at his decision to take the throne seemed to smile at him endlessly, and it made his skin crawl. He didn’t feel like a leader, even when he addressed them, or when they bowed out of respect for his soon to be title. He felt like a piece of meat at market, declaring his own value to a hungry audience. Worst of all, the realization had quickly set in.. .that this would be the way of things for the rest of his life. Eamon had told him once that taking the crown would be the most terrifying experience of his life….but said nothing of the aftermath, and Alistair had quickly grown to resent him for it. In fact, he was starting to resent all of them. Since his arrival at castle Redcliffe, he spent his nights alone, and so often his only companion was a bottle of wine. The deafening silence was as relentless as a chorus of accusing voices. Not once since the Landsmeet had he fallen asleep, he’d simply passed out, and in a paralyzed stupor, he imagined Lynaia was there beside him, holding him in a comforting embrace. 

Six months had passed since last they had seen one another. She was always in his thoughts, but as hard as he might have tried to remember her beautiful smile, the only image of her he could conjure was that of her features, twisted horribly into an expression of utter heartbreak, and the palms of her hands that were cut deeply in her fruitless attempt to reach him. 

Every time an envoy of one of the armies arrived with news, he was adamant on speaking to them in private, to enquire after her, to know where she was going and who with. Ever since Ostagar they had barely been apart, and it left him deeply unsettled not to be a part of her world. The Envoys were useless for the information he wanted. All they would ever give him was official business, prattling on about troop movements and supply conditions. It was infuriating. Alistair wanted to know if Lynaia seemed upset by their parting, and how she was coping with it, if it was any better than him.   
Most importantly though…he wanted to know about Loghain. Time had done nothing to quell his hatred of the man, and just the idea of him there, travelling at her side….it made his stomach boil with rage. If he could leave his own king to die, and so many of his own soldiers….there was surely nothing he wouldn’t do if given the opportunity. If Lynaia were to be injured, perhaps he would seize the opportunity to do away with her without blame. Worse still, what if he was worming his way into her company, filling her head with his poisonous words and turning her against him?  
He had tried with all his might not to think of it, but the sight of her there, sitting on the rocks on the path to Redcliffe castle, looking off at the sunset all the while Loghain was tending to her ankle…it made him imagine worse things. Had they grown so close that she would allow him to touch her with such familiarity? 

All the while he had been grieving for what was no longer his, he had let himself take comfort in the fact that Lynaia would never look at a man again the way she had him. But she had moved on before, had she not? She had pined away for her childhood love after all. Would she come to forget him too?

He couldn’t allow it. Blight be damned, for there was something more important at stake. 

When the great hall was vacated, Alistair returned to his lavish quarters and sat alone by the fireside, considering a great many things. He loved her, that much was still true, and try as she might to hide it, she loved him as well. There had been a moment, albeit a very, very brief one. When she had met his gaze in the village, it was as though nothing had changed, as though she were about to run into his waiting arms and never leave them. But she hadn’t, and the distance between them was kept, even if it was with some difficulty. Of course he had wanted her to come to him, to make the first move, perhaps even beg his forgiveness. But she didn’t, proud, stubborn thing that she was.   
Well it wasn’t going to stay that way. He would make certain of it, even if it meant he had to do most of the talking.

After he had finished his third bottle of wine, and felt suitably encouraged by its effect, he left his quarters and marched down the hallway to find her room. 

 

He’d banged into the odd pillar or wall along the way, but thankfully there was no one about to question his reason for being there. Most of them had gone to the village, likely for one more drink before the march to Denerim began. There would be no time for rest once they set out, and that was exactly why he needed to do this now. With all the uncertainty that was to come, he wanted to be confident, unfettered by doubt and paranoia. He wanted a promise. 

They had stayed in Redcliffe once before, when the Arl was ill, and he knew she would be housed in the same quarters. When he eventually found the right hallway, he stopped in front of her door, and hesitated only a moment before knocking, loudly, idly wondering and most definitely hoping the Arl had housed the disgraced Teyrn of Gwaren in the stables with the dogs where he belonged. 

Lynaia opened the door only a crack at first, obviously surprised to have a visitor at this late hour. “Oh” she said dully, as though she were hoping it was anyone else but him.  
“I know its late” he said, bracing a hand against the door in case she tried to shut it in his face. “May I come in?”  
She thought about it for a moment before she nodded curtly and opened the door fully so he could enter. The room smelled sweetly fragrant, like Jasmine and poppies. The source of the scent, he noticed, was coming from the burning herbs in the wooden pipe she was holding. It was familiar to him, for it was something she smoked whenever she was either in great pain or going through a stressful time, one of the few habits she took with her from the days traveling with her tribe.  
“Is something wrong?” he asked concernedly, though it was obvious.  
She slumped into the armchair facing the fire, and flicked a bit off ash on the floor. “ Besides the impending call to war?”  
“of course…apologies, its just…” he rubbed the back of his neck as he idly looked about the room. “The pipe. I remember you only ever smoked it at the worst of times.”  
“Is this not the worst of times?” she snapped irritably.  
“it is” he agreed, though it was obviously not a question. “that’s why im here. I wanted…I needed to see you.”  
She didn’t turn to look at him, and there was nothing to indicate she had even heard him. He shut the door behind him and walked to the chair she was sitting in. Her head was tiled lazily to the side, braced on her left hand. Her eyes were empty of emotion, and she looked as though she had recently been crying. He bent down on one knee and looked up at her, studying her mask-like features. He couldn’t help but notice that, while she still looked like Lynaia, she also looked much older than she was. she was no less beautiful…but she was different, in a way he could quite understand. The only feature that had truly changed was her hair. Without thinking, he reached up and touched the stray wisp of red that dangled beside her ear. “You cut your hair” he gasped, even though he had already seen it on the road.   
“I lost the right to wear a braid” she said emptily, without looking at him. “By the laws of my kin, I am dishonored”  
Her eyes sought out his then, and she sighed. “I have to tell you something, Alistair.”  
Before she could continue, he reached for her hands and drew them into his own. “Wait, me first” he said firmly. His head was spinning, but he had to speak his mind before he lost his nerve. “You don’t have to apologize, Lynaia. We both made out mistakes at the landsmeet, and I’ll admit that perhaps I was wrong to have said what I did.”  
Her eyes grew wide. He patted her hand gently. “I still love you dearly. I always will. Of course I cannot go back on my decision to take the throne now, and it will mean I must take a wife of noble blood and make an heir. I wish it could be otherwise, but the Bannorn’s would never allow me to take an elven woman, especially not a Dalish one, as my queen.”  
She was now looking at him as though he were a feature in a painting, with interest, but not much else in the way of emotion. It made him feel uneasy, but she had the right to scrutinize him. she would better understand when he had finished at any rate. “but I would still wish to do right by you” he clarified. “We are, as you say, bonded, which is as good as marriage to you kind is it not? Though I am still very angry over your decision, It has not changed the fact that I love you. I may now be King of Ferelden, but I don’t intend to lose you. You are mine as much as I am yours, after all.”  
On bended knee, he felt as though he were truly proposing to her. He had wanted to so many times before, though it would not be as he had wished it to, not entirely. “Become my mistress, Lynaia. You would always come before any other woman, even if I were to marry. I could give you the best lodgings in Denerim, and between your duties and mine, we could be together, as it was before.”  
“it would not be as it was before” she said flatly.  
He frowned. “No, it would not I suppose. But it would be something. I could not bear to think I should ever have to spend so long apart from you as I have these past few months. It has been utterly miserable for me, and I know it has been for you too. You missed me, did you not? Surely you cannot have forgotten me, my love?”  
It was a beautiful moment. Even though his vision was not entirely focused, he saw her catch her breath, and her eyes were wide. “No, Alistair, I have not forgotten you.”

She stood up with such speed that he very nearly fell backwards, and in the blink of an eye she had moved halfway across the room. “I could not forget “ she spat, rounding on him when he staggered to his feet. “For the festering wound that you have left in my heart.”

She had never, never looked at him as hatefully as she did now. “Do you think so little of me that you would have me as your whore?” she asked, incredulous. ”is that what I have been to you all this time?”

“No! Maker of course not!” he exclaimed, shaking his head in denial. “You are my life, Lynaia! You are all i could ever want”

Her nostrils flared. “No. You wanted vengeance above anything else. That much is clear.”

He opened his mouth, but no words came to him. he was standing there like a gaping idiot and she turned from him without an ounce of pity in her expression. “I will not be your whore, not any longer” she said, waving her hand at him dismissively over her shoulder. “I have been utterly ruined by the love I bore for you. Go and take your place on the great throne of Ferelden. No doubt a hundred women would let you slake your lust on them, but not I, not ever again.”

His cheeks were burning hot with anger. “Maker’s breath woman, this will not do!” he roared at her, marching across the room and grabbing her by the wrist when she went to leave the room. “What did I ever do to earn such cruelty and coldness from you? Was it not enough to betray me for that mongrel Loghain? Was it not enough for you to humiliate me in front of all of Ferelden? All I wished was to put things right between us as best I could, and still you would strike at me as though I had committed some crime far worse than loving you!”

The hatred in her eyes, that intense and burning ire, was suddenly swept away and replaced by fear, and their red rims were glistening with unshed tears. She tried in vain to wrench her arm away from him, but he would have none of it. Perhaps it was the wine, or perhaps he had simply lost his ability to feel pity for her, but he would not allow her to run from him now. “Let go of me” She hissed warningly, though she was shaking like a leaf. “You know nothing, NOTHING, of what I have suffered because of you.”

His heart was beating wildly. He felt like a man possessed, and part of him was even afraid of himself in this state. He had never wanted to hurt her. He had never wanted to be the reason she cried…but she had made him into this shadow of his former self by turning against him. He wanted to be rid of her, but he did not want to lose her either, and inside he was tearing himself apart in a fit of madness. 

“She told you to let go, boy. I suggest you heed that warning.”

The cold tip of a sword was pressed against the back of his neck.

He didn’t need to turn around to know who was holding it, but he would have preferred it if it had been the Archdemon.


	17. Loghain's Atonement, Redcliffe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Loghain confronts the soon to be King of Ferelden, and finds himself in a situation he never could have imagined.

Loghain remembered the day that Maric took the throne. 

For all of his complaining, for all of his fears and trepidations, and of the self-worth he seemed to lack at the worst of times, Maric had taken his rightful place, and the moment the crown was placed upon his head, no one could have thought he belonged anywhere else. It may have been the life he had fought against for all the time they had spent together, but he had a pure heart that beat for the kingdom of Ferelden and for its people, and that alone made Loghain fiercely proud to have been there at his side.

But Alistair was nothing like Maric, nothing but a twisted resemblance that seemed to mock him in the cruelest of ways. 

Cailan had been weak, but at least he had tried to be a good man, a good king. For the first time, Loghain found himself wondering if he had made a dreadful choice in letting him die, for surely anything would have been better than this alternative. 

He had been sitting at the desk in his quarters writing a letter to Anora when he had heard the shouting. It was not the first time that night that he had heard commotion coming from that room, but the first time it had died out quickly and he had assumed that would be the last of it. It wasn’t his place to get involved in Warden Lynaia’s business, but the second time he recognized the offending voice as that of the Bastard Prince, and something about it sounded almost dangerous.

Now here he stood with his sword to the boy’s neck, and it took all his strength not to push it right through his throat. The moment he had seen the fear in Lynaia’s eyes, it made him angry, a lot more angry than he had the right to be.  
It wasn’t clear what Alistair’s intentions were, but he wasn’t going to give him the benefit of the doubt. And besides, the lad was drunk. If the smell wasn’t a clear enough indication, the way he swaggered like a common lowlife confirmed it. 

“its you” Alistair sighed, turning his head enough to regard him with a hateful glare. “of course it would be you.”  
He let go of Lynaia and faced him, his head lolling from left to right as he regarded him disdainfully.  
“You’re drunk, boy” He growled, lowering his sword when the elf had slinked away to a safe distance. “Maker’s breath, are you out of your bloody senses?!”

Alistair chuckled humorlessly. “This really doesn’t concern you, Loghain.”

“How far the bloodline of Calenhad has fallen” Loghain said bitterly, shaking his head in disbelief. “to have a weak brute take the throne which has seated some of the greatest leaders in Thedas. You have no right to call yourself Maric’s son, whelp!”

To his shock, the boy was smiling. He reached out and traced his finger along the sharp edge of his sword. “I suppose you want to kill me then” he said, feigning an expression of fear. He put his hand beneath the sword’s tip and lifted it high enough so that it was inches from his neck again. “After all, Cailan didn’t meet your standards either, did he? And you killed him.”

The would-be prince wasn’t just drunk. He was utterly mad. Loghain watched in horror as he held the blade to his throat with both hands with that wickedly infuriating smile plastered across his face. “Do it then, go on.” He said invitingly, and then he gasped, pursing his lips as he looked up at the ceiling. ”though, I suppose it wouldn’t end well for your dear Anora if you did.”  
“My daughter has nothing to do with this” Loghain hissed, his nostrils flaring as he fought to quell his rage.  
Alistair’s brow quirked. “Doesn’t she?” he asked mockingly. “Oh, I suppose Eamon hasn’t told you then, about our agreement. You see, we’ve been talking lately, about how you might be…hmm, a little upset about the outcome of the Landsmeet. I don’t expect after all that you would behave any more honourably as a Warden than you did as the trusted advisor to the king. So we drafted a document, stating that if you were to ever, say, try to do anything that were considered as a threat to my reign…well, that would result in the imprisonment of your daughter. And if I were to be harmed, with any implication that you had a hand in it….no doubt she would be executed for collaborating with a traitor.”  
Loghain felt his blood turn to ice. He could practically feel Alistairs pulse touching the edge of his blade…it would have been so easy to end him here and now. “You’re lying”  
Alistair shook his head, the tender skin of his throat just about grazing the steel. “If you believe that, then what’s stopping you?”

He was trapped. Trapped by this damn fool of a prince and that traitorous bastard Eamon. Losing the fight to Lynaia seemed like nothing in comparison to the humiliation he felt now. Never in his life had he felt like more of a failure, to himself, to Maric, to Ferelden, and to his own flesh and blood. 

She had been watching them both up until now, but she moved between them quickly when the silence set in, and with both of her hands she pushed them apart as though they were quarrelling dogs. “Enough!” she shouted. “Alistair just go! Go and sleep off this drunken stupor of yours. Tomorrow your people expect their King to lead them. if you have any honour left in you, you will do the right thing.”

The boy’s eyes darted between them, narrowed with suspicion. No doubt in his state of shameless inebriation he was hearing and seeing something conjured by his own paranoia. “Oh I see” he said with revulsion. “So it’s true then. I didn’t want to believe it, I wouldn’t let myself believe it…yet here it is as clear as day.”  
Lynaia shook her head irritably. “Gods, what are you speaking of now?”  
He pointed his finger accusingly at Loghain. “You have thrown your lot in with him, haven’t you?” he bellowed furiously. “How easily you accuse me of reducing you to the status of a whore, yet I think you have done that very much for yourself. “  
She glared back at him with furious disbelief, her eyes practically bulging from their sockets. “How dare you? By Elgar’nan, you have thrown yourself into this paranoid delusion indeed! I have not even the strength to fight you anymore on this, Alistiar. Leave me, go, just go!”

And this time he did. He turned on his heels with his cheeks burning with anger and marched out of the room as though she had scalded him with boiling water. “Oh I shall!” he yelled back at them from the doorway. “May the Archdemon take you both!”

She skulked to the door and slammed it loudly when he had gone, and only then did she crumble and allow herself to react as she had likely wished to for quite a long time. Turned away from him, he heard her chest wrack with a hard, heavy sob. Loghain was stunned beyond belief for what he had just seen, and what he was seeing now, so much so that he could not bring himself to move.  
Denerim was under siege from an army, its people trapped behind the walls that were supposed to protect them, praying for a king to save them all, and this drunken braggart was the only one to answer the call? The very thought of it made him sick to his stomach.  
Lynaia whirled around, both of her hands pulling at her hair in anguish. “What hell is this, that I should be forever surrounded by this nest of vipers with their poison and lies?” she breathed, her eyes shut tightly. “I am ruined, utterly ruined.”

Like a maddened beast, she stalked about the room frantically, pulling at her hair and breathing so fast that he grew genuinely concerned that she might pass out in her anxious fit. “I should have killed him” she cried. “I should have killed him before he could drag me down any further than he already has!”  
“Makers breath woman” he gasped in alarm. “Have a care for what you say! You are speaking of regicide!”  
She rounded on him. “I kneel to no king!” she shouted angrily. “And do not act so high and mighty, Loghain Mac Tir, for I know you are thinking of it too for your own reasons!”  
He couldn’t blame her for her anger, but if anyone were to walk by, overhear what she was saying, it would end terribly for them both. That fact alone emboldened him to take action. Before she could do herself any further harm, he took two long strides across the room and grabbed her by the shoulders, pulling her close enough that he could hold her there without hurting her. “And that is exactly why I advise caution. Listen to me” he said firmly as he shook her. “and listen carefully; Soldiers know by instinct who the strongest authority is, and its more than certain it wont be him. You have gathered these armies, you have held the reigns thus far, and it is you they will look to on the battle lines. Whatever he’s done to you, forget about it. The men need you, and you’ll do them no good in this state.”  
Her clenched fists were beating against his sides in protest, but she was looking up at him with immense focus, and refusing to cry. “I know that, don’t you think I know that?” she said hoarsely. “I never asked for this, any of it.”

Loghain ought to have been angry to see her display weakness when her strength was needed the most. But no matter hard he tried, he couldn’t bring himself to direct his anger towards her. She was hurting, grieving even, and though it seemed a lifetime ago now, he had been young once, and tried enough times to escape from the burden of duty and the heartbreak that came with it. But this woman didn’t look like the type for running away, she looked like the kind who endured, even if it was practically strangling the life from her. 

She deserved better than this. 

Eventually she stopped struggling against his grip, and he felt the tension in her arms ease. She was looking up at him as though she were waiting for him to say something that would take away all of her doubts. There was something in that gaze of hers that almost looked like trust.  
Certainly she had sought him out on numerous occasions, albeit begrudgingly, when it came to the matter of the war, but nothing more than that. She had full right to treat him with disdain, or drag him about like a trophy of conquest if it pleased her, but she hadn’t. After all he had done, she treated him with respect, and still he could not understand why. Perhaps it was because she saw something in him that even he couldn’t see, or perhaps she simply didn’t have the capacity to hold a grudge. Though admittedly she was a most unpredictable woman, and by no means easy to read. Apart from now. She had dropped her guard, likely because there was no point in hiding it after what had just transpired. Perhaps she only looked at him thusly because he was the only one to have seen it, and it created some level of forced trust between them, as well as a mutual hatred of the person who had done them both such harm. 

His grip on her arms loosened. Maker knew she had probably had enough harshness for one night. “He is a fool” he said bitterly. The words, when he uttered them, sounded eerily familiar. “A fool to have taken the crown, and a fool moreso for having lost you. Don’t waste your tears on the likes of him.”  
But she did not cry, as he had expected she would. Even Rowan had cried, when Maric had spurned her for love of another woman. It seemed there were no more tears left for Lynaia to shed. He gingerly traced her arms with his fingers, a gesture which he had intended to be wholly chaste, but it certainly didn’t feel that way. She shivered, but she did not pull away from him. It was very, very wrong of him to look at her the way he was now. 

He wanted her. It was entirely wrong of him to want her, for she was young enough to be his daughter, and he was by far a man past his prime. Stranger still, she was an elf, and he had never held a particular appreciation for elven women as most men did. They were too foreign for his taste, with their cat-like elegance and mysterious grace. Yet there was something in her that called to him, and the fact that she was elven, the fact that she was young, didn’t seem enough to quell his desire. 

“He was not always like this” she whispered slowly, her gaze still focused intently on him. “he was sweet and ever gentle with me, and I thought him such a kind soul. Was I more the fool than he for not seeing this? For giving all of myself to him?”

He frowned, and shook his head solemnly, ignoring the pang of what felt terribly similar to jealousy. “You were no fool” he said. “I know better than most what charms come naturally to Therin men. I may have respected his father a great deal, but I think now that there must be some curse in that bloodline. They seem to burn so bright that any woman who dares to love them is destined to be scorched. It may mean little to you, but for what its worth, I regret that the mercy you showed towards me was the cause of your sorrows.”

And Loghain truly did regret it. It caused him no shame to admit it. He felt entirely unworthy of her kindness, and turned his head away from her because the softness of her gaze felt undeserved. 

“You are entirely different from him” she murmured thoughtfully. “like night and day.”

He promptly removed his hands from her. He was very much aware of how people viewed him; as the dark shadow that stalked the footsteps of better men, that lingered on long after their passing like a ghostly reminder of the light that was gone from their world. His only consolation was that she could have no way of knowing the workings of his mind, for if she did, she would surely be horrified, or worse, she would pity him.

He turned to leave, but the gentle touch of her hand on his wrist made him halt, against his better judgment. “Wait” 

Without looking back, he shook his head. “It would be best if I left.”

“I do not regret having spared you.” she said firmly.

Her words gave him pause, but he had to leave now, before he did something extremely unwise. ”Then you truly are a fool in your own right.”

“No, I am not”

That was it. The last of his resolve crumbled to dust. He wheeled around and snatched her up into his arms, his lips crashing against hers with almost a bruising force. Years of military discipline, and yet he was utterly undone by this woman’s stubbornness. It was laughable, but he certainly wasn’t laughing now.  
He was kissing her, even though it was not his right, even though it was so wrong. He felt her gasp in shock, and only then did he pull away from her. “Do you regret it now?” he snarled furiously, baiting her as best he could into pushing herself away from him. He would have let her go, even now, if she made even the slightest sign of protest. 

But she didn’t.

Her chest was heaving, but she was looking up at him with that incredibly infuriating expression of defiance. “No” she breathed, and this time it was she who had caught him off guard. She stood on the tips of her toes and wound her fingers into his hair, returning his kiss with the same level of urgency as he had shown her. He had removed his leather armour hours before, not anticipating any need for it that night, and now he was quite glad he had, for the way her body pressed against him felt good. It had been so long since he had last held a woman with such longing, he had almost forgotten the exquisite sensation of it.  
At her urging, he moved her backwards until her back was to the door, and when her lips parted so invitingly beneath his, he slid his tongue into her mouth and the soft moan of approval she uttered was enough confirmation that she wanted him too. 

Loghain was not so foolish as to believe she bore him any love or great affection, and he found himself glad of it. His days of love were long over, and the last of his heart was with Celia in the grave. He didn’t want the responsibility of this young woman’s love, but it was enough for him to be wanted by her, and whether it was vengeance or comfort she desired, he would gladly oblige either way.

He broke away from the kiss only when her fingers had found their way under his shirt, and she was skimming them across the bare skin of his abdomen. He growled in response, and practically tore the shirt off his back and cast it aside so he could do away with hers as well. Her head fell back against the door and she sighed when he brought his hands to her naked breasts, his calloused thumbs seeking her pert nipples. He brought his lips to her ear. “I should hope you are not thinking of your sweetheart now” He whispered huskily, and felt her body tense in reaction.  
Her head snapped forwards, and her eyes, dark with lust, gave only a split-second warning before he felt the searing hot flash of pain as her fingernails sliced down his back with the sharpness of daggers. He winced at the pain, momentarily distracted, and she earned herself the upper hand, taking his chin beneath her fingers and forcing him to look at her. Her nostrils were flaring, her lip curled back in a threatening snarl. “Do not dare to speak of him” she hissed. “I longed for his touch once, but now the very thought of it sickens me. I cannot bear to think of it”

It was wicked of him to goad her, but he liked her like this. Perhaps it was why he had wanted her to begin with. There was a clear and distinct darkness in her that flourished in her grief, and it called out to him.

Maker knew he had tried to be a good man all his life, to be selfless; to suffer the wounds of self-sacrifice with grace, and what had his efforts wrought but betrayal and loneliness?

For the first time in his life, Loghain Mac Tir realized he might well have been looking at the only person who could have possibly mirrored the darkness of his own soul. 

“By your leave, “My Lady” “ he said sweetly, and when she released her hold of his chin, he leaned forward and kissed her neck. “Allow me to assist you in forgetting then.”

With one hand caressing her breast, he slid the other down along her stomach and beneath her loose trousers. Her head fell forward, her breath quickening against his shoulder as he slid two fingers into her core, and stroked her there with expert precision. Already she was dripping wet for him. So focused on the task, he had barely noticed that her hands had wandered down to his waist, and that her fingers were plucking at the laces of his trousers, which were at this point feeling uncomfortably tight. With a groan of impatience, he divested her of her remaining coverings, and moved both of his hands to her rear, lifting her so that she could wrap her legs around his waist for support.  
Her mouth sought out his once more in a kiss that was all teeth and tongues, fierce with passion. She bit down hard on his bottom lip and ground her hips against him, and though he was used to tenderness and passiveness from the women he had lain with in the past, he found now that the pain and urgency she showed was thrilling.  
In one swift movement he freed his length from its confines and she tilted her hips against him and impaled herself upon him with a single thrust, her breath catching in her throat.  
At first he tried to be gentle with her, hard as that was, but thankfully she would have none of it. She dug her fingers into his shoulders until he was pounding into her, hard and fast, and only then did she lean her forehead against his neck and utter the unrestrained sounds of her approval and pleasure. “Makers breath” he panted, burying his head in the swell of her breasts. “Fuck, that’s good…”

If anyone were to have walked through the corridor outside, they would have heard the thrashing sounds of the rattling door, and known what was transpiring behind it, for neither of them so much as attempted to be quiet. Loghain didn’t care, in fact he hoped that drunken fool Alistair came back. What a sight it would have been for the Bastard Prince to see his former lover with her legs wrapped around him, her thoughts entirely consumed by the pleasure he was giving her without a thought spared for him. He couldn’t help but wonder if the lad had ever made her feel as good, but he wouldn’t dare ask her now. He wanted her only to think of him. He wanted his name to be the only name she cried out that night. He could die tomorrow, and it was damned likely he would if Riordan failed to kill the Archdemon himself, but he would die happy knowing he had finally been selfish enough to take one final victory to the grave, and in the arms of a beautiful woman no less. 

With her throat exposed so invitingly, he seized the opportunity, and closed his teeth around the tender flesh and bit down hard. She cried out and responded by lacerating his back with more deep scratches in her frenzied state of passion. The renewed pain spurred him on even more, and the faster he thrust into her, the tighter she became, until finally she clung to him with both arms and legs, throwing her head back and crying out his name. The force of her climax undid him entirely, and knowing she was sated, he followed soon after with one final, deep thrust, emptying himself deep inside her with a guttural shout of utmost relief. The sheer force of it sapped almost every ounce of strength from him.

With his legs threatening to buckle beneath him, he shakily lifted her in his arms and brought her to the bed, and there they lay, staring up at the dusty rafters, side by side as they caught their breaths. 

________________________________________________________________________________________________

 

“Do you regret it?”

Lynaia, with her head resting against his arm, turned to look at him, and shook her head. “No”

Loghain breathed a sigh of relief. His senses had slowly returned to him, and he realized just how shockingly out of the ordinary he had behaved just now. Yet he couldn’t find it within himself to regret it either. “Will you tell him of this?”

Again, she shook her head. “No” she said dully, though this time she elaborated. “He already assumed it of me. I need not tell him of it myself.”

“Point taken” he agreed. “Though I am surprised nonetheless at your choice of vengeance, and who with.”

She raised herself up onto her elbow, and brought the stem of her pipe to her lips. He idly watched the billowing smoke rise and dissipate above them, and breathed in the warm scent of jasmine that it produced. “It was not entirely vengeance” she stated honestly. “Though there was some part of me that desired it, knowing his hatred for you.”

She peered down at him throughtfully. “I have been betrayed twice over by those I had trusted with my life since this began” she said grimly. “What bitter irony that the man who was my greatest adversary should prove the most trustworthy of companions. “

“Fate does have a twisted sense of humour” he sighed in agreement. 

She nodded, sitting upright and drawing her knees up to her chin. “Thank you, Loghain, for settling my mind” she said softly. “I had feared that for all that has happened, being alone on this night with my thoughts would unsettle me. Gods know the soldiers amassed at the gates of Redcliffe need an indomitable leader tomorrow, not a fearful one.”

He sat up next to her and put his arm around her slender shoulders, and she sank easily into his embrace. It hardly felt like an unusual gesture now, after what they had just shared. “No one could blame you for having some sense of fear.” He said reassuringly. “Leadership is no easy task, nor is the idea of death, whether it be your own or of your men.”

“I am not afraid to die.” She said calmly, and with such firmness it almost sounded like she expected it to be absolute certainty. “I have nothing to lose.”


	18. Morrigan's Regret, Forgiven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Morrigan recalls the battle of Denerim, and confronts emotions she has kept hidden for many years.

She had meant to fly far from them all. They were nothing to her, none of them, not even Lynaia. They were of no use now. There was no point in remaining.

Yet no matter how hard she beat her raven wings against the harsh wind, Morrigan could not bring herself to depart into the wilderness. Her part was done, but the fate of the world was still balanced on a knife’s edge. Perhaps it was wise to observe what was yet to come, to know if there would be anything to return to in the end. That was what she told herself, the truth of it hardly mattered.  
Even if she would not make herself known to them, she would stay close at hand.   
And so, concealed from the marching army in shapeshifted form, she followed high above.  
She followed them across the pillaged countryside and the craggy hills, the grim procession of weary, fearful soldiers marching behind their would-be king and their warden hero. She dared not look too long at the woman she had called friend, though somehow it was a difficulty.   
She perched atop a crumbling windmill to listen to their speeches that roused morale in all those assembled, though felt none of it in herself. She heard the roaring cheers that rippled through all those assembled and cast away the guilt that very nearly compelled her to join them. No, this was no longer her fight. Nothing to gain, no point in risking her life. She had to survive, that was Flemeth’s teaching. It didn’t matter that Flemeth was rotting in the ground somewhere in the Kocari Wilds. She didn’t need her, or anyone. All those assembled might well die by the end of the day, and it was no concern to her. Lynaia might die, but what matter was that now? Nothing, it was definitely nothing. nothing to be gained, nothing to mourn.

There she stayed, upon that charred and broken windmill, watching it all, seeing it all, until the gates were felled and the battle lines spilled into the city like a torrent flood come to purify the burning earth. Even then she remained, unmoving, unfeeling, listening to the sounds of war as she might have once listened to the birds twitter at dawn. 

The archdemon circled high above the walls, higher than the tallest buildings, hunting, commanding, a curious mix of sentient creature and remorseless beast.   
She gazed at it with cold eyes, knowing that when it was felled, its soul would seek the warden who struck the final blow and be destroyed. The old god would die, and the knowledge of that drove her from her raven form. She clutched her empty belly and sighed, thinking of what might have been, the power she might have known. Some small part of her even thought of the child she might have had, that would have been hers and hers alone.

Lynaia had robbed her of all that potential. Whatever happened now, the elf’s fate was her own. She would not be sad for that. The twisted, uncaring part of her mind told her that it would be only right she died for her foolishness. 

No sooner had she allowed the thought to slip through, she heard the deafening screech of the Archdemon as it hurdled towards the highest building in the city.   
With almost childlike curiosity, Morrigan rose to her feet and peered across the smoke filled sky, only just able to make out the tattered wings of the dragon flapping wildly as it crashed into one of the towers. It was grounded, and it wouldn’t be long until it was weak.

She held her breath, forcing back the urge to fly, to see the end for herself.

There was a moment, one long and dread-filled moment, in which the entire world seemed to come to a complete halt. She wondered, briefely, if she were going mad. It was as though the smoke from the burning buildings ceased to billow and the sounds of death hung suspended in the air.

And then it came, with all the swiftness of the rolling tide, the death cry of a dying ancient thing, so powerful that the ground shook and the ashen sky was ripped asunder by a great pillar of light.

Eyes wide, she could only watch, useless, as the great crescendo ebbed away and the light faded, overtaken by the first forgiving rays of sunlight and the great cries of victory rose across the city in unison. 

This time, she did fly. She flew across the corpse-littered field, eyes watering from the smoke.

It was the smoke, it must have been the smoke. She wouldn’t cry for others. No one ever cried for her. She wouldn’t cry, not even if it was her, even if it was Lynaia.

It wouldn’t be her. She wouldn’t have, surely….why did she care?

Another cry broke through the thrumming sound of the victorious army, nothing like the others, powerful and raw, and it struck her with a dreaded realization. Her wings faltered and she found herself falling through the air, landing hard in the soft grass amidst the dead, both darkspawn and ally. 

The cheers silenced and the wail carried through the air, ringing in her ears, as Morrigan lay where she fell, chest heaving and eyes stinging painfully.

She stayed there for some time, unable to move, or think. Everything was drowned out by that terrible, miserable sound.

She needn’t have seen it at all. She knew that somewhere beyond the broken gates, Alistair was sobbing over the broken, empty corpse of his lover.

Morrigan found it within herself to flee eventually. It was all over. She departed that place and never returned, venturing far into the wilderness and away from all familiarity for many months. 

When she emerged, she was determined to forget.

___________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

“This is why you’ve come now?” Morrigan snarled angrily. “to chide me? To remind me of past wrongdoings?”

The black eyes of the ghostly shade peered at her through the billowing mist of the crossroads, unblinking. 

It wasn’t fair. None of this was fair. She didn’t want to remember it. She wanted to live as she always had these past ten years; relatively happy. Alone, but happy, with only the occasional niggling recollection of those days. Now it was raw, and real once more. 

But had it ever truly left her?

The shade of Lynaia was suddenly but a few inches away from her, and though those gem-like eyes barely glimmered, her expression was filled with angering pity.

“the past is gone, old friend” she whispered, her pale, willowy fingers reaching out to her. “I came at your calling with no ill intent. Only to hear the words you have long wished to say. I beg you now to unburden yourself of that which has caused you such suffering.”

She was right. Of course she was. what point was there in denying it now?

Morrigan sank to her knees, the golden, gilded mirror clutched tightly in her hands. “I hated you” she spat, letting the tears she had pushed down for ten years spill forth unhindered. “I hated you so much. I hated you for denying me the power I longed for, the power that should have been mine! But moreso….moreso, I hated you for not letting me help you. You died….and I lost the only person who ever treated me like I mattered….you…you…”

She was sobbing now, barely able to get the words out, but she truly longed to unburden herself, even if she despised her own weakness. “I wanted you to die…and then you did, and ‘twas too late to…to tell you I was sorry. Sorry for betraying your trust, after all the kindness you showed me…”

The spirits arms wound around her shoulders, holding her close. Morrigan gasped. 

No one had ever embraced her with such gentleness. She realized that somehow, even in death, Lynaia felt real, almost living. The sensation made her heart lurch, but she surrendered to it, her own hands grasping at ghostly shoulders and finding purchase.

“I forgive you” Lynaia whispered gently. “Now, you must forgive yourself. Someday, I hope you realize what a wonderful person you are, what a special thing you are, and that power is nothing compared to that.”

And then she was gone, as mysteriously as she had come to her, leaving her alone in the mist with those words. 

There was no sorrow now, only relief. 

Morrigan looked down at her own reflection. Despite her red-rimmed eyes and puffy cheeks, she found herself smiling, wiping away the last of her tears. 

She was forgiven, finally free. 

Perhaps Lynaia was right. Perhaps even without power, she mattered.


	19. Lelianas confession,Battle's end

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Leliana dreams of a good future, but fate deals a cruel blow.

Hours spent in ardent, focused prayer had yielded nothing in the way of comfort. 

While many had gone to the tavern for a night of revelry, likely knowing that for some it would be their last, Leliana had sought the peace of the waterside, far away from the crowds and the noise. Reciting prayers, verses she had known for years, should have given her some rest, as it had a hundred or so times before. But the air was thick in Redcliffe, as though the entire atmosphere was shrouded in a silent shadow of foreboding. 

Some part of her had hoped, as a child might hope when they are afraid, that when she opened her eyes there would be some sign that everything was going to be alright. But when she did, there was only the gentle lapping waves, and the distant drone of noise coming from the village. Downtrodden, she simply sat on the edge of the pier, letting her legs dangle over the edge and ignoring the cold wind chilling the bare skin of her legs. 

She had thought she was a woman with enough knowledge of the world and its workings to no longer be surprised by strange things. Now more than ever she felt more like a child, afraid of invisible forces hiding in the shadows. Was it mere superstition, a product of faith? Or was it something darker, more tangible and ever-present? She should have feared the battle, as all the soldiers did, but this fear had come long before they had reached Redcliffe, when the illusion of their perfect little story world had been shattered. Ever since that night in the woods, Leliana had felt as though they were all being stalked by some invisible force, something dangerous that couldn’t simply be killed by the means of magic and melee. 

She tried hard not to dwell on it, for it was surely just her imagination gone wild, perpetuating a danger because of the traumatic occurances she’d witnessed. Yet it stalked her nonetheless. But it would be alright, would it not? Of course the odds were against them, but all good stories reached their climax in such a way. Heroes never triumphed in fair odds, only when the deck was stacked against them, as it had been for them many times before. Perhaps everything had worked out as it had for a reason. It was easier to imagine it all as a wild tale, for of course living through these events was terrible in the present. The battle would end and as the years went by, she could look back on it all as a dramatic saga that held a valuable lesson. Lynaia would defeat the archdemon and retire from her days of battle, perhaps even return to her normal self. Maybe then it could all be almost as it once was, her heart might mend and she might forget these unhappy times and move on, learn to love again. Perhaps she might even bring herself to forget that night, and there would be hope for them after all?  
Yes, that hope was helping. She found herself imagining what it might be like, now that Alistair was no longer in the way. Lynaia might come to love her in time. they could ride away from damaged Ferelden and seek adventures of their own, just the two of them, and their story could be a happier one with no such sorrows. 

It could be good, it could be everything she wanted and more. Even if it was a futile thought, she would make it her mission to see it through. She realized that was what she had been missing for those sorrowful months, that candle of hope, that true and real belief in the great tales of bravery and heroism. The maker would surely reward those who suffered with peace, and the maker must have seen their plight and took pity on them for all they had suffered. 

That night when she returned to her quarters, she felt far better, and proud to have conquered her irrational fears. There were no dark shadows following her now, not on this night.

Instead she dreamed, and in her dreams, she was somewhere far away, sitting by a crackling fire humming pretty songs under her breath, Lynaia’s head resting on her lap, her eyes closed and her face peaceful as she listened. 

She had always said she loved those songs. 

 

________________________________________________________________________________________________________

She had said goodbye.

It was a goodbye.

How had she not realized it?

The moment she placed her hand on her shoulder, her face drenched in the blood of the Darkspawn outside the city, and smiled that empty smile, she should have known. 

“All will be well, Leliana” she said, her breath catching in her throat as though she were holding something back. “soon enough, all will be well. Be safe, dear friend, and farewell.”

Leliana had smiled, emboldened by her courage, and said. “I’ll look for you when this is done.”

Lynaia said nothing, but offered a hesitant nod. She had said her farewells to everyone else and saved her for last. That, she told herself, meant something. 

Wynne, Zevran and Loghain had been chosen to go with her. She had been too distracted by the battle, too dizzy off the rush of combat to ask why she hadn’t been chosen.

It was all done to perfection. They really were like storybook heroes now, breaking the darkspawn lines and liberating the city of its scourge. Their battle lines separated and amidst the cheering crowds, Lynaia charged forth into the fray like some fearless, untouchable creature, and Lelianas voice had joined the crowds with fervent, passionate cries of “Maker be with you! Andraste be with you!”.

She had thought that blessing enough. Lynaia was too strong, had survived too much to fail now.

And she hadn’t failed. She had done everything she had promised.

The great pillar of light that broke the clouds above had the entire army in joyous uproar. Leliana felt drunk on the heady swell of victory, as the declaration rang out that the archdemon had been slain.

It was finally dead and the darkspawn were broken. They had won the day and the blight was over. 

Giddy as a schoolgirl, she could hardly keep still, feeling so close now to that wonderful life she had dreamed of.

The Dalish elves who had survived the battle on the rooftop of Fort Drakon returned shortly after, but their faces had been like stone. While everyone else who had been below was celebrating, their somber procession shuffled through the crowds, barely noticed. 

She wasn’t giddy anymore. She was afraid, and the fear this time was real.

She wound through the jumble of soldiers, her heart beating wildly in her chest, her eyes focused solely on the elves. Somewhere between them she spotted Loghain, but before she could call out, she noticed the wideness of his eyes….and that he was carrying someone.

“Where is Lynaia?” she asked numbly, shaking the shoulder of the nearest Dalish elf, but she was ignored. It became quickly apparent that all of them were far away in their minds.

 

She followed alongside, trying to shoulder through them, to see the cause of their trance like state. Eventually they halted, came to a stop, and when they moved aside, their was only Loghain…

She looked at the body in his arms, praying for it to be anyone else, praying that if it was indeed Lynaia, she was only injured…but already she was crying, and then screaming into the palms of her hands. 

The old general dropped to his knees, carefully laying the unmoving body on the ground, the Dalish elves at his back, almost protectively. 

Everything became a blur. Someone had laid a hand on her shoulder to steady her but she never found out who it was. She fell forwards, her eyes utterly transfixed on that body on the ground, the body of the woman she had invested all of her hopes and dreams in, the woman she loved and trusted above anyone else, the same woman who had once smiled a lopsided smile and brawled with her in a forest and made her believe life could be good.

Someone else was screaming now, but she was too lost in her own maelstrom of despair to care who it was.

She tugged at her hair and wailed until her throat was bloody, cradling herself like a child on the hard, blood-soaked stone. 

There was no more cheering, only wailing, hers and…Alistairs? And shouting too, then more wailing, like animals at slaughter, filled with fear and horror.

But it didn’t matter. None of it mattered.

Where was the Maker now? 

Where was Andraste?

Where was the mercy for the suffering?

Lynaia had said goodbye, and she had been the fool who believed a true hero could never die.

Everything descended into cold darkness, and Leliana prayed it would swallow her whole. She was done with this world, and its unforgiving nature.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Leliana's story was inspired by this beautiful song:
> 
> Zađi, zađi
> 
> Zađi, zađi sjajno sunce,  
> Zađi, pomrači se  
> I ti jasna mesečino  
> beži, udavi se
> 
> Tužna šumo, tužna sestro,  
> hajde da tugujemo zajedno  
> Ti – za tvojim lišćem šumo  
> Ja – za svojom mladošću
> 
> Tvoje lišće šumo – sestro  
> će se tebi vratiti  
> Moja mladost, šumo – sestro,  
> vratiti se neće.
> 
> English Translation
> 
> Set, Set
> 
> Set, set bright sun,  
> Set, blackout  
> And you clear moonlight too  
> Run away, drown yourself
> 
> Sad forest, sad sister,  
> Let’s be sad together  
> You- for your leaves, forest  
> Me- for my youth.
> 
> Your leaves, forest – my sister,  
> Are going to get back to you  
> My youth, forest – my sister,  
> It’s not coming back.
> 
>  
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4MdwDng0i2c


	20. Alistair's Redemption, Battle's end

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The battle for Denerim reaches its end, and Alistair realises the true price of the Blight.

The first light of dawn was not a welcome sight when it streamed through the stained glass windowpanes in the grand lodgings of Redcliffe.

Alistair lay beneath the vast canopy of his bed, motionless, dreading the very thought of movement. His head was pounding, but the dull throbbing in his knuckles was more of a concern.   
He glanced around the room, realizing what a mess he had made the night before. The curtains were torn. Slashed might have been a better word. The floor was littered with empty bottles, some of them broken. Most notably the mirror that had sat on the dresser was completely shattered.

He barely remembered doing any of it.

Raising one of his hands for observation, he noticed the various bloody scratches. He must have broken the mirror with his bare hands. At least, he hoped it was the mirror. He had a vague recollection of leaving the room earlier on in the evening. He’d spoken to Lynaia, had he not? 

No, he hadn’t just spoken to her though, had he? He’d poured his heart out, and she had been displeased.

And Loghain had been there. Why had he been there?

There were a lot of questions, and the events were coming back to him in fragmented pieces. Before he could try to piece them together, Eamon entered his quarters, fully armoured for the coming battle, without so much as knocking. “your majesty, i-“

And then the arguing began. While Alistair reluctantly rose from his bed, Eamon prattled on about the broken bottles and the state of his chambers, and then the lateness of the day. It was only just dawn, was he to be up and dressed before everyone else, excitedly prancing around at the gates to show his enthusiasm for their march on Denerim?

He did his best to ignore his Uncle and began to dress, wondering exactly what he had been up to the night before. He’d never been quite that drunk in his life, no doubt he had said something he would come to regret.

When he looked reasonably presentable, or at least when Eamon had stopped giving out and helped him into his armour, he marched out into the courtyard, where everyone was already preparing to depart. Thankfully no one looked too closely at him. clad in his shining golden armour, he supposed the sunlight deflected the majority of close observations. His former friends were preparing their horses, all but Morrigan, who didn’t seem to be present at all. He was glad of that small mercy. The damn witch always had snide comments for him, and he did not need that today. 

A flock of Eamons favoured war advisors swarmed around him, babbling their last-minute advice and words of encouragement, but he was barely listening. The courtyard was thrumming with wild activity, everyone scurrying to ready supply wagons and bid farewell to their families. He searched intently for Lynaia, the only person he truly wished to see at this critical time. The subconscious, burning shame that was eating at him made him truly worried about what may have transpired the night before.   
Eamon handed him a piece of parchment- something about troop formations- and he merely nodded. “yes yes, I understand” he said dismissively, still searching through the crowds for a glimpse of crimson hair. “where is Warden Lynaia.”  
Eamon’s impatient sigh was enough to show his disdain for his constant obsession. “whatever business you have with her can wait” he said gruffly, tapping loudly on the parchment. “focus, Alistair, your soldiers need you sharp today. We are extremely pressed for time and every movement must be considered carefully!”  
“Fine!” he snapped. “tell me everything. Make sure to remind me how not to embarrass myself as well, as we both know it is inevitable.”  
And so, unsympathetically, Eamon and his rabble of noblemen swarmed him with information and reiterations, even as they bellowed out orders to assembling units. He didn’t have to say much for himself. They dictated the order of things, without much expectation from him. it was made clear what his place was, and he was content with his lot for now. The less expected of him, the better.   
It was almost time to leave. He felt like he was going to be sick, both from nerves, and an already nauseous hangover. It all felt like a terrible dream, one similar to those he’d had all of his life; where he was left in charge at a critical moment, with a sense of impending doom. He might not have to be quite so responsible- he was only the face of leadership after all- but if they failed, the world would blame him forever no doubt. It wasn’t fair. He shouldn’t be riding at the head of an army, he should’ve been beside Lynaia, as a grey warden, doing the heavy work, not taking a backseat in the battle because the kingdom wanted the his damned bloodline preserved. He would hardly see any of the fight, all the while Lynaia would be the true hero on the frontlines, and instead of him, it would be Loghain, who deserved absolutely no glory after all he had done. Would they come back, ride through the streets of Denerim and be hailed as the saviours of Ferelden, all the while he would be hardly more than an accessory in the throne room, about as much use as a potted plant?  
But that wasn’t worth thinking of now. The right thing to do would be to think only of the Archdemon, and of Denerim’s peril.   
His horse was saddled and ready, and now people were looking to him, waiting for him to be their brave and confident prince. He had to act the part, or attempt to at the very least. Had to put on a show to make the world think everything would be alright. Would it though? They might win, and maybe the rest of the world would breathe a sigh of relief, but what was left for him? a life of pretending? A life of loneliness amidst a sea of polite faces? A life knowing somewhere out there, the only person he truly wanted was living her life without him?  
And there she was, striding across the courtyard with her spear in hand, beautiful crimson hair cropped and shorn, geared for the battle to come. How confident she looked. How easy it was for her to appear as a beacon of hope. If she were the queen and he the warden, Ferelden might have been better for it.  
Maybe…maybe if all was well, if the blight was quelled…maybe it would all be good again. Maybe as a hero of Ferelden…would the people think her a good candidate for Queen? 

He had to do something, say something. Pride be damned, he needed some glimmer of hope for himself, even if he had to cast off her wrongdoings and admit the fault was all his own. Maker only knew what he’d been up to after all that wine….

Her back was turned to him. she was busy tacking her horse, seemingly oblivious to all the noise and chaos around them. She was alone, and his advisors had gone elsewhere. It might be the only opportunity to share a private word between them before the battle. He had to seize the opportunity now.  
“ah..Warden Lynaia?” he said meekly, sounding very much like a fearful schoolboy as he approached her.  
“Majesty” she said, without so much as a glance as she adjusted a saddle strap.  
“i…well…I just wanted to…to..” why was this so bloody difficult? “I don’t know if I’ll have the chance to say this..later…I wanted to apologize, I suppose.”  
“for last night?”  
So he had done something. Hopefully it was nothing too terrible. “for everything”  
This time she did look back at him. Genuine surprise was evident on her features. “oh” she said, frowning. “how kind.”  
Was that it? That was all she had to say? He didn’t want a mutual apology from her but…something, anything would be better. “I have faith we can see this through” he continued carefully. “and…when we do I just…I hope…”  
He sighed. Her features were like iron…not sad nor loving…a shade of the woman he loved. Was anything left of what they had shared? 

“I…”

He should have told her, one last time, just how much he loved her, that no matter where she went, no matter what happened, his heart would always be with her. 

“I hope…” 

But he didn’t. 

Even when the words hung upon the tip of his tongue, desperate to burst forth, he couldn’t bring himself to say it.

“I hope all might be well.”

Lynaia turned to face him. There was nothing in those eyes, nothing but resignation. She stared up at him and he took in the sight of her, from her sea green eyes that no longer sparkled, to the smooth, shaved spots above her ears where her hair used to be tucked back, always inviting him to run his fingers through it. his gaze wandered down further, to her elegant cheekbones and rosy lips, and further still to her elegant neck…

Until he caught a glimpse of a strange, purpleish-red mark just above her collar bone. It looked…

…Was it a bite mark?

As though sensing his alarm, her had came up to cover it. his eyes snapped up to hers. His heart missed a beat. There was something else mingled in her expression now…though he wasn’t sure what it was.

“whatever unhappiness that was between us is forgotten, your majesty” she said lightly. He hated when she called him that. Her eyes darted to her left…and his followed.

She was looking at Loghain, who was standing alongside his horse by the stables, out of the way of everyone else. As though sensing her gaze, he looked back. 

Like a spectator at a tourney, Alistair looked at one, and then the other, again and again. It couldn’t have been more than a few seconds before they looked away from one another but…something about it made the hairs on his arms stand rigid with unease.

“Your majesty we are ready to depart!” Bann Teagan called out, snapping him out of his trance. 

He wanted to ignore them. This, whatever THIS was, felt far more dire and worthy of pursuing than the Archdemon all of a sudden. But they wouldn’t leave him be, and called for him until he responded. “yes, alright im coming!” he snapped irritably.

Even as they brought him his armoured horse, he was looking back. Lynaia was mounting her own steed, taking the reigns in hand and observing the organization of the units casually as though nothing had occurred. Perhaps he had been imagining things…

But when Loghain trotted across the yard, seated atop his black Destrier, Alistair couldn’t help but narrow his eyes at him. The old hound paid him no notice, not until he was but a few feet away. and then that steel-blue gaze met his, and for a split second, Alistair was almost certain he had caught sight of a smile.

An image flashed in his mind, of lecherous hands caressing familiar porcelain skin covered in intricate green swirls….

The blaring sound of a warhorn in the distance made him jump, and the barely-there image was forgotten in an instant....

But not the anger that it roused in him all of a sudden.

_______________________________________________________________________

 

He did his part, and surprisingly he did it reasonably well.

Like a bird awaiting the sight of prey, the Archdemon was high above the smoke-filled skyline of the burning city, keeping watch over its horde, whispering its secretive commands. Even now, he could hear the feint, foreign whispers. It was close enough that it sang to his tainted blood. When last he’d seen it, it was in rallying them in the deep roads, back in a time that felt too long ago, when everything was good. Now it was loose, and their armies were likely nothing more in its eyes than a feast. 

Alistair stood atop his podium and made his kingly speech in his most regal voice, looking down at a sea of faces that sought the encouragement they needed to face the coming onslaught. Beside him stood Lynaia, stoic and still as a statue. To all he declared her their commander, never a finer woman to lead them now in their darkest hour, and with all the passion in his heart he meant it. 

And when his part was done, hers began. She rode off to the frontlines, but for a moment, her sea green eyes sought him out but once, a split second, before she disappeared.  
In his golden armour, he may have looked very much like the son of Maric and brother of Cailan Therin, but he was shaking in his boots, gripped by fear. It was a bitter irony, to hold such authority with almost no power. Had he been down there, with all the rest of them, he would not have been afraid, because his fate would have been his own.

He could only watch as the armies charged, kept at a safe distance and surrounded by guards. It was entirely possible that he could have insisted on being there, leading from the front, and perhaps they would have respected for him more for it. or they would have thought him a fool. Cailan had died due in part to such recklessness. But it didn’t matter. He wasn’t a grey warden now, there was no point in taking such a measure.   
The darkspawn had been waiting for them. Hurlocks held the necks of defeated soldiers and slaughtered them before their army, but their act was cut short when the first wave cut through them on horseback. It was no more than an act, for what lay within the city was the real threat. What flew above them was the most dangerous threat.   
The siege equipment barely survived long enough to batter down the front gates. And even from the back lines he could see from horseback the way the sturdy iron gates buckled and gave way. out from the gap the darkspawn poured like murky blood from a wound. All along the walls the creatures stalked and fired on the soldiers. Soon the armies blurred together and the real slaughter began, and the air was filled with cries of pain and fury. 

An hour passed before they broke through to the city. The ladders gave them access to the walls and once the watchtowers were taken, they had gained their necessary foothold to retake the city in earnest. Only then did Eamon give the order for them to advance. It seemed a twisted sort of irony for him to enter the city that would be his when it was engulfed in flames.   
He had once joked that were he ever in charge, people would die and he would find himself very much lost. Lynaia had laughed, as he remembered, and told him he was a fool. He would have given anything to hear her say that now. 

Every district was under siege. Had they not arrived when they did there might have been nothing left to save. It looked as though what soldiers had stayed behind were close to decimation. Corpses were strewn across the ground, both civilians and soldiers mingled with the freshly fallen Darkspawn. He wondered if Goldanna and her family were safe. Most of the houses in the area were already burned out, including hers…

The darkspawn were retreating now, back into the narrow alleys to regroup. The Archdemon was keeping its distance for now, and it gave them time to regroup.   
Hundreds of soldiers from the assembled allies were returning to their formations while others outside the gate were forming up to face the darkspawn reinforcements coming through from the south.   
It was a small victory, giving them but one moment of stillness before the final push. They were in the eye of the storm now, with the fate of Thedas hanging in the balance.  
Up until now, it had felt like a realistic goal, to win the fight. They were the force of good fighting the forces of evil, the kind of tale that ended with the triumph of the righteous and happy endings for all. The only battle he had been close to in his life had been ostagar, and even then…he hadn’t seen the mass carnage and bloody chaos of a real war up close. The ground was barely visible beneath all the corpses and the river of blood, and this was not even half the battle yet.   
When some measure of order was restored, he caught sight of the wardens and the rest of the party far away on the other side of the market between the assembly of the Redcliffe soldiers. They were preparing for the next assault already, and before he could think to go and see them off, Teagan motioned for his attention and pointed to the gates.   
“Sire, the Darkspawn have emerged behind the back line!” he shouted. “we need directive!”  
He didn’t have time to think. There would be time to regroup later, surely? Lynaia wouldn’t be alone. She’d killed a dragon before. The Dalish would be with her, should anything go wrong. That was the plan, and they would ensure she was safe. 

As he rode back to the gates, he heard the soldiers cheer her on her way.

“Maker be with you, Warden!”

“Strike the bastards down!”

“we’re counting on you, Warden!”

Everything was going to be fine. Riordan was there. Her friends were there. Their armies were there. It wasn’t going to be like last time. They were prepared. That had to count for something.

 

___________________________________________________________________________________________________

 

He could have wept with joy the moment he saw that bright beam of light hit the sky above. 

All the losses they had taken that night would not have been in vain. The moment the archdemon breathed its last, he felt its nightmarish hold on the darkspawn horde weaken and disappear. Like rabbits escaping a burning woodland, they were running now, fleeing, what was left of them, running for the sanctuary of the deep roads to lick their wounds, and they wouldn’t be back any time soon. Not after their great winged master had been felled. 

A great cry of victory erupted and rippled through the entire city. 

It was over.

Finally it was over.

Duncan, Cailan…all those who died at Ostagar had been avenged. 

The future didn’t matter now. For this one moment, he breathed a sigh of relief knowing that what Duncan had started, he had been there to finish. 

But where was Lynaia?

Probably picking her spear out of the damned beast’s head and wiping the gush of blood from her armour. 

He could just imagine it; the Dalish archers tearing its wings to shreds with their arrows, and Lynaia waiting below to strike the killing blow. She would have taken it for herself no doubt. She would want it done right.   
The last time they had fought a dragon she had slashed its stomach open and ended up covered in guts. She’d been less than pleased about it, but when he eventually stopped laughing and wiped the blood from her brow, she had started to laugh too, and threw her arms around him just to make sure she wasn’t the only one covered in mess.   
That night they bathed together in the river together, and made love until the sun rose, carefree and unhindered by the cares of the world…and afterwards, while she slept in his arms, he’d drifted off to sleep, wondering if he could hunt something with a fine pelt to give to her as a gift, as that young Dalish lad Camen had given his sweetheart when he proposed…

He never did find that beast with the perfect pelt. He’d forced himself to wait until after the Landsmeet. Why had he waited? 

He rode through the crowded market, only vaguely aware of the people that cried out his name and shouted their praise. The clouds were beginning to part above, and streams of light illuminated the smoke filled streets. There was so much damage that would need repairing, but it would all be put to right soon enough he supposed. Civilians that had taken sanctuary in the Chantry were beginning to emerge, and all eyes were upon the sky above, all faces warmed by the light of the morning sun. it was a wonderful sensation. He was weary and tired, but content, holding on to this moment of perfect peace before the future could snatch it away. 

Perhaps there was some way for things to be put to right...

“They’ve returned!” someone cried, from atop the walls above. “the wardens have returned!”

His heart lurched. Sure enough, he saw figures emerging through the gates in the distance. He swiftly dismounted his horse and shouldered his way through the gathering crowds. 

Already his mind was in overdrive. He couldn’t exactly sweep her up in his arms and kiss her until she was breathless and make a thousand apologies, not with so many people watching. Would it matter? she was their hero now, and even if she hated him for what he had done he would…he would…what could he do? Maybe just a bit of courtesy for now. There would be some sort of ceremony for the victory no doubt, maybe this time he could work up the nerve to communicate everything on his mind. He was struck with the sudden realization of his own wrongdoing, now that the great evil that had hung over them all was gone, that he’d been an utter fool. She had let the traitorous Loghain live. It wasn’t right but he shouldn’t have turned on her, shouldn’t have said those awful things. Now there was time, time for him to show how truly sorry he was, even if it took the rest of his life to prove it. 

The Dalish elves came first. They had come with two hundred strong numbers, but less than a hundred had returned by the looks of it. their difficult task of bringing down the Archdemon had likely exacted a heavy toll. Many of them looked injured, but they marched in a sort of formation, sullen-faced and silent.   
Standing on his toes, he scanned the sea of tattoed faces, and somewhere in between them noticed the one that was unmarked and most definitely human and regrettably familiar.   
So he had survived, had he? A shame the Archdemon hadn’t chewed him up and spat him out. 

Surrounded by the surviving generals, with Eamon at his side clapping him on the shoulder with a word of congratulations, and the still cheering survivors at his back, he watched and waited for anticipation to see the champion of the day return victorious from her conquest.

When the elves came to a halt in the heart of the market district, their eyes were downcast. They moved out from their neat formation, and Alistair felt the whole world come to a shuddering halt.

When Flemeth had told him that the King’s army had been wiped out at Ostagar, and Duncan was dead, he felt there was no worse feeling in the world than the one he had when the news sank in. 

But this was worse.

Maker, this was so much worse. 

He must have fallen on the battlefield, struck down by the darkspawn. This had to be a fever-dream, like the nightmares…a trick, another deceitful trick of the Archdemon. One last laugh before the fall. He would wake up soon…and surely…surely….maybe all of it had been a dream? Maybe he’d wake up in the camp by the river, before the landsmeet, and Lynaia would be snuggled into his chest, safe and snug and content, reassuring him even while she slept. It was all just one big lesson about his stupidity. “people would die, I’d be lost…”. That’s what he’d said. His own subconscious was just giving him a reminder, a very vivid, terrifying, unspeakable reminder to scare him straight. 

Amidst the thundering cheers, he head someone screaming. It wasn’t a nightmare. It couldn’t be a nightmare if there was someone else seeing it.

There was Loghain, limping through the crowd of elves, holding that unmoving body…that body with the Dalish armour etched with the grey Gryphon on the shoulderplate, half-hidden beneath shoulder-length, blood-soaked crimson hair. Even without seeing her face, he would have known her anywhere. 

Now he was running, running filled with fear the likes of which he had never known before, towards the man he despised more than anything in the world, who was holding the body of the woman he loved, the woman he needed, more than anything in the world. And he was screaming in his head, “no!” over and over again until the words reached his lips and tore from his throat, as if saying it enough would make it so. 

And when he reached her, the Old Hound gingerly placed her at his feet, like some sort of hideous offering tribute.

Alistair feel to his knees, staring wide eyed with horror at the still, empty body before him. her pale skin was barely visible. There was so much blood…drenching her armour…her arms…her face…and when he timidly touched her brow, she was deathly cold, unnaturally cold, and he knew, though he desperately wished he could not have known, that she was gone.

His heart was threatening to burst. The pain was so raw, so intense…he threw himself upon her and sobbed and screamed until the coppery taste of blood filled his throat. “Don’t go. Don’t go. Please Lynaia, please don’t leave me….please come back. Come back. Come back…please come back to me”

Someone tried to rouse him from his maddened state of despair, to pull him away. “Let her go, lad. Let her be. She’s passed…”  
“NO!” he screamed, clutching Lynaia’s cold leathers tightly. “GET AWAY FROM ME! DON’T YOU DARE TAKE ME FROM HER!”

And so they left him there, knowing there was nothing to be done to console him. He wailed like a gutted beast amidst the sea of the dead for what seemed like hours, holding the woman he loved for what would be the last time, knowing her arms would not come around him now, and there would be comfort to take away the pain that consumed his very being, that tore away the most fragile piece of him and shattered it without pity.


	21. Loghain's Atonement, Battle's End

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The battle of Denerim comes to a bitter end, and Loghain is determined to strike the killing blow against the Archdemon.

It seemed impossible to be anything but afraid when they came over the hill, and looked down upon the black sea of darkspawn that stood between them and the city they had come to reclaim. High above, the Archdemon, which Loghain had only seen is his nightmares, was beating its leathery wings against the wind and letting loose its crackling inferno upon the city he had dedicated his life to defending. Only last time, it had been an army of men, men he hated for their cruelty and malice, that stood in their way. But mortal men could still feel pain, could still sometimes see reason and show compassion. What lay before them was a hive of souls killing machines that hungered for them, unfeeling and monsterous. He found himself thinking of Cailan, and of Ostagar. For all the boys foolishness and failure, he had been at the head of his army facing this same enemy. Had he been afraid? They had all thought it was no true blight back then, just a large amount of Darkspawn acting as a unit without leadership. Without a leader, what was there to fear? It had been miscalculated from the very beginning, and now everything might be lost. He had always been more afraid of the actions of Orlesians, because he had known them well enough to know their twisted minds. It had been entirely wrong of him to think all enemies could be the same, could be anticipated. There was no reason for Darkspawn, only the chaos of their very nature, unpredictable as the changing winds. And now that chaos was spilling into the streets, and this army, this army that was at least four times the size it had been in Ostagar, was ready and waiting to sate its hunger for destruction.

Odds were odds, he told himself, and they had come in numbers that far outmatched what they had had before. Behind him stood a thousand soldiers; Fereldens, Elves, mages, and dwarves, all bearing skills that alone might have never been enough, but they were united now under one banner, for one objective, and there would be no retreating this time. This time, it was all or nothing. there would be no surviving if this day was not won. And this time, he was ready to stand until the bitter end, ready to take down every single creature that stood in the way of that goal whether it was reached or not.

The boy-king made his speech, and desperate for a sup of courage, every last man and woman took in his words. They needed to believe that this was the day they would survive. But Loghain had no care for his words, for he heard fear in them when no one else could. Whatever he had to say was nothing more than empty, rehearsed reassurance that had no substance unless he believed it for himself. Kings too were made of clay, and he needed to believe he was following someone made of iron, unbreakable and unbowed.

That, he knew, was exactly what Warden Lynaia was. Seated atop her armoured horse, taller than ever before, she was like a storm incarnate, filled with fury and indomitable focus. She did not stand above anyone in the army, did not utter her words from some podium like a politician. No, instead she galloped across the lines with her spear raised high, letting its sharp etch strike against every raised sword of every horseman on the front lines, as though to remind them that she was not their leader, but first among equals.

“Today we are undivided! Today all gods look down upon us and see that we are one force, one army, united in our darkest hour! Arise, Arise good people of Thedas and fear no darkness! There in the sky and in this city lies your enemy, the enemy of all good men and women of this world, who hungers for your fear. But today, we shall leave them wanting!”

The thundering roar of approval rung out through the air, drowning out the shrill shrieking of the Archdemon in the distance. 

“Amgarrak!Amgetoll!Amgeforn!” she roared, and behind the mounted cavalry, the dwarves cried back. “Amgarrak!Amgetoll!Amgeforn!”

“Sulevin ghilana hanin!” She roared, and somewhere far behind, the Dalish cried back. “Sulevnin ghilana hanin!”

Lynaia turned to face the armies below, and beneath her the horse reared on its hind legs as she pointed the tip of her spear to signal the charge. “For Ferelden!” she cried, and he, alongside all those whos heart beat for the land that was theirs now and always, cried back with all the passion their hearts could muster. “FOR FERELDEN!!!”

Down the sloping hill they charged, on foot and on horseback, with hearts filled with courage and shouts of fury filling the air. Not even the Darkspawn could have been impervious to the strength of their resolve. The battle had begun, and as the sky blackened with arrows and the blighted army broke their bodies on a thousand blades, there was not a soul amongst the Warden’s army that doubted that today was the day that not even a god could help trembling at the sight of their last stand.

___________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Riordan had failed in his task.

He saw the body of the senior warden fall from the sky and break upon the steps below, as the blighted dragon shrieked and bolted to the clouds above. The rest of the darkspawn had no capacity to care for their safety, but the Archdemon was a sentient creature knew its weaknesses, its purpose, and was determined to survive to see it through. But even though Riordan hadn’t struck a killing blow, he had obviously wounded it severely. He could see the wide tears in its leathery wings, and though it was now beyond reach, it wouldn’t be able to maintain altitude for long. Without the fire reigning down on them it was their one chance to reach Fort Drakon. The rest of Denerim was almost secured. Now was the time to press the final assault and bring the Darkspawn to heel. A sacrifice would have to be made, but he felt no fear of it. This was a cause worth dying for.

Lynaia sounded the war horn, and the Dalish answered. It was the fourth and final call, for already the mages and dwarves were occupied with defending what they had reclaimed, and most of the Redcliffe and Denerim forces were outside the gates, holding back the reinforcements. 

A single one of their archers was deadly enough, but as a tactical unit, the Dalish were a force to be reckoned with. They moved with almost unnatural swiftness to answer the call, notching their bows and letting loose a hail of arrows on the darkspawn that stood in the way of the great fortresses entrance. Lynaia bellowed out her commands in both elven and common, and they made their way through the main hall, cutting down the forces that stood in their path.  
Of course she needed no direction. After a brief stint of incarceration here, no doubt she had mapped it all in her mind when she escaped.  
Anyone who had been unlucky enough to be locked up still within the cells had been slaughtered. There was nothing left of them but blood and entrails. But the majority of those who had slaughtered them had moved up to the roof already. He could feel their presence, and there were a lot of them.  
“Tend your wounds, retrieve your arrows, and ready yourselves” Lynaia ordered in the common tongue as she snapped off half of a darkspawn arrow that had embedded itself in her armour. “We do not have long to tarry”  
She barely winced when she wrenched the barbed arrow tip from her shoulder.  
A wait, however brief or necessary, was the last thing he wanted. He paced impatiently, watching the elves in the hall prepare themselves for their task. “One life. After all that’s happened, seems like such a small thing to give up to see this land safe” he mused aloud, though he had not intended to.  
She leaned back against the wall beside him, and closed her eyes. “A small thing?” she said slowly, contemplatively. “No life is a small thing. One soul can bear an ages worth of memories, lessons, heartaches and dreams, a dozen victories and a thousand defeats, no matter how insignificant a life it has been. Every step of the journey is a ripple, every revelation a wave…”  
Her eyes opened again, and to his surprise, she smiled. “Time of which we have no knowledge, until the end lies before us”  
It occurred to him that all the while he admired the strength of her resolve, she seemed almost too calm now. Someone so young should have held some level of nervousness, some shock at the chaos of battle. There was no certainty of victory until the archdemon was dead, and it would be foolish to assume otherwise.  
But this woman was no fool. When had she ever been less than two steps ahead of everything in her mind? In all but matters of the heart, he supposed was the correct answer. Those sage words were those of a person who had lost too much to be shocked at the true horrors of the world. But she still had time, time to mend the hurt and reclaim some small measure of peace, surely, even if innocence was truly unsalvageable. 

Sleep had eluded them both the night before they marched. She had lain her head upon his chest, and tenderly tracing the scars that he had gained in battle long ago, she had asked of their origins. So he had indulged her curiosity, recounting the battle at West Hill and of Gwaren, tales which many knew of but few understood. yet somehow, her gentle touch had managed to coax from him details he had buried away in bitterness long ago. He spoke of Katriel’s betrayal, of his father’s death, and even of the love he had once borne for Rowan. By the time the sun had risen, she knew everything, and for the first time in a very long time, his heart felt very much unburdened. Why she had asked, why she had listened, why she had cared at all for his troubled past might forever remain a mystery, for there was no point in wondering about her motivations. It was his last confession, and he was content with his lot. There was no more advice he could give her, for he knew she didn’t need it. She went her own way, and likely she always would. 

The roof above them trembled. The Archdemon had grounded for the final fight.

“Halam’shivanas!” she shouted, loud enough that it roused the Dalish into action. 

As the elves marched single file through the hall, many of them were saying the same word, and saluting her with fists thudding against their chest. 

Curious, he raised a brow at her, and before he could ask its meaning, she told him.

“The sweet sacrifice of duty”

 

The deafening shrieks of the dying dragon permeated the air. Its tattered, leathery wings flapped desperately for want of freedom. All around them, those soldiers that were still alive had turned the fight to the remaining darkspawn forces that tried to reach it. It was dying, but not yet dead. 

No, it wouldn’t die until the final blow was struck. 

And now, only one thing stood between him and his objective.

Lynaia.

The choice in his mind seemed undisputable. Here they stood, one deserving of death, and one who deserved peace. But the looked that crossed her face told him that it was no accident that she stood in his way. She had made a choice of her own, and he’d be damned if he let her go through with it. 

Before she could make this decision for both of him, he grabbed her by the wrist, knowing that if he let go, she was lost. “Listen well, Lynaia” he growled, his heart thumping wildly with dread. “Give me an order, any order, and I would follow it. But by the Maker, I will not let you throw your life away, not when there is an alternative!”  
She did not try to fight him. she was perfectly still, staring up at him with eyes rimmed by the first signs of tears. “I never told you why I let you live at the landsmeet, did I?”  
What did that matter now? “No, you didn’t”  
“Because” she said, her hand winding around his wrist. A single tear rolled down her blood-spattered cheek. “A man who gives everything for the land he loves, for the people he loves, and takes nothing for himself in earnest, is a man of honour, deserving of a chance for atonement for his wrongdoings. “  
Moved deeply by those words, he was all the more determined to make her see reason. “I have done so much wrong, Lynaia” he said somberly. “Please, allow me to do one last thing right.”  
A long moment passed, in which she merely studied him with those eyes that sparkled with tears. she laid her palm upon his breastplate, above his heart. “You will die for a noble cause, I know it” she breathed.  
He released her wrist, breathing a sigh of relief. Her hands came to rest upon his face, and when her lips touched against his, he shut his eyes and pulled her close to savour this last moment of mercy the world would ever show him before he met his end.

“...but not today.”

The force of her fist smashing against the side of his skull sent him reeling backwards. It could only have been a few seconds before his vision returned, but she was gone, and before he could react her spear had been wrenched from a nearby corpse, and she was running, charging, and though he gave chase, he already knew it was too late. 

The Archdemon reared back its head and uttered another scream of defiance, but the scream became a grotesque gurgle as the Ironbark spearhead bit through its scaled neck, releasing a torrent of blackened blood as it fell.

Suddenly, everything was enveloped in a blinding light, which shook the earth beneath them as it rose to the sky above. Somewhere within, he could just about make out the figure of Lynaia, desperately trying to wrench her weapon free from its skull.  
The light became an immense explosion of white flame, the force of which sent him sailing backwards through the air, along with everyone else who had been caught by the blast.

He landed on the cold, hard floor, and everything seeped into blackness. 

__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

It was the spear he found first.

It had landed a few feet away from where he lay. The etched wooden handle was almost snapped right through the middle. 

There was a foul taste in his mouth, somewhat familiar. He realized dizzily that it was the blood of the Archdemon. He wondered how long he had been knocked out. His head was throbbing painfully. A few minutes? An Hour?

Next to the remains of a shattered ballista, Wynne was clambering to her feet, clutching her head, while the Antivan crawled out from under the rubble. The elven forces had taken heavy losses, but those that remained were regaining consciousness. 

Ignoring the horrendous ringing in his ears, he stumbled to his feet.  
Using his sword-was it his sword? It had been beside him when he awoke, but it didn’t feel right in his hand- he propped himself upright. The glint of metal poking out of his right calf indicated he’d sustained an injury, but he was unsure of when it had happened. The shock from the impact hadn’t left him yet, so the pain of it hadn’t yet set in. 

The Archdemon’s battered corpse was strewn out across the ground, its broken wing flapping like a banner in the gentle wind. That was where he found her, lying there beside the creatures head, inches away from the gaping maw of its mouth. Her empty eyes stared up at the sky, where the sunlight was beginning to break through the dark clouds. Gracelessly he went to his knees beside her. When was the last time he’d looked down at the dead body of someone he had any real care for? Cailan, he supposed, when they had returned to Ostagar and found him hanging from the bridge, a trophy of the Darkspawn. 

Placing his hand upon her brow, he gently eased her eyelids down.

The survivors had gathered around him, and when he looked up at them, they knelt in silence, and every last one of them brought their heads to the ground in a low bow of respect to their fallen sister. 

When he looked back down at Lynaia, he realized that her right hand was clutching something. It was small, barely noticeable; some sort of flower. The petals looked dry and wilted, but whatever it was, it seemed significant enough for her to be holding it in the last moments of her life. He gently pulled it free, and tucked it beneath her leather armour. 

There should have been some senstation of emotion in him, anger at the very least, anger for her stupidity, but there was nothing. He simply felt cold, and empty. 

If not for the single droplet that fell upon her cheek, he would never have even realized he had cried.


	22. Interlude

_She had hoped, hoped against hope, that Hahren Paivel had been right, that all the stories were true. Death was the journeys end, Halamshiral, the great reward of peaceful rest in the beyond.  
The ties to her body and the mortal world were severed. She floated, weightless, in a place that was all a blur of colour without solid form. She hadn’t expected it to feel this way. She realized numbly that there was no feeling at all. She had passed beyond all sensation. _

_And she was alone._

_Somewhere that seemed very far away, there was screaming, crying. For a split second, part of her wanted to go back. One half of her heart still beat within the chest of another, and it was hurting. She knew it, even though all feeling was gone.  
The part of her that would have wept for the sadness of it seemed far away indeed._

_She simply drifted in the beyond, alone save for her thoughts. Was heaven truly a world of solitude? Where were all the others, the ones who had gone before? Where was Tamlen? Where were mamae and ada? Where was the baby she had buried in the woods, the little girl who might have given her one last reason to survive?_

_Perhaps she would find them. Perhaps this was just a moment of adjustment, before Falon’din would take her to the beyond. They would be there, all of them, and though the only person she truly wished to be with was in another world, she would find rest beside them.  
Every part of herself had been given, willingly or unwillingly, to bring it all to an end. They would all understand someday. Morrigan, Leliana, Loghain…Alistair…_

_There was a sudden sensation that seemed to come from nowhere, which made the rainbow of colours around her shrink away like shadows at sunrise, and now darkness was tugging at her, pulling at her very being. She screamed out loud, but she had no voice. Something that felt like thorns seemed to prickle at every inch of her skin. There was pain, so much blinding pain. She was being dragged down into some pit of darkness that was more horrifying than anything she had ever known, in life or in death._

_Like a child, she wept, soundless, pitiful. “don’t put me in there, don’t lock me away” she wailed in her thoughts. Where was she? What was happening?!”I want to go home… the cave…the ruins…its too cold ….i don’t belong here… never belonged…no hope…no hope….it hurts…please, stop crying….Alistair…”_

_She was sealed in._

_There were no friendly faces to comfort her and guide her to peace. There was nothing and no one and no matter how hard she tried to get away she was walking though the strangling black mist and there was nothing and no one to guide her away nothing and no one to comfort her and guide her away and nothing…nothing....nothing…_

_Nothing. ___


	23. Leliana's confession, Aftermath

_“D’you ever think about what its like?” Leliana mused lightly as she looked up at the stars. “what its like, at the end of the journey?”_

_Everyone else was asleep in their tents. Tonight it was just the two of them keeping watch. It was her favourite time, when everything felt safe, and even such a maudlin topic could not possibly evoke fear._

_There was a long pause before Lynaia answered. “I don’t see it as worth trying to perceive.”_

_Leliana smiled. Such a typical answer from someone so carefree. “The Chantry says that when you die, Andraste takes your hand, and guides you to the maker’s side, and that there we find nothing but joy.”_

_She didn’t have to look over to know the elf was wrinkling her nose with disdain. “Falon’din guides my kind. He guides us through the shadowlands, to Uthenera, the long sleep. The endless dream.”_

_“Who wants to sleep forever?” Leliana scoffed, rolling onto her chest so she could raise her brow curiously at the elf. “it sounds very dull.”_

_“So does your Maker. No offence.” Lynaia said distantly. She smiled then, and turned her head. “I barely ever get any sleep anymore thanks to the nightmares of the taint. I should think it will be nice when the time comes, to have a very long sleep. but hopefully not too soon.”_

_Leliana swatted at her shoulder and grinned. “You’ll outlive us all, knowing your stubbornness.”_

_“Who knows?" she said with a smirk. "But i don't intend to go quietly when the time comes. Rest always feels better after a good fight." ___

_________________________________________________________________________________________________________________ _

____

Two days for the fires to go out.

Three for the armies to take their dead away to be put to rest.

Four before the King would leave Lynaia’s side.

They had to drag him to his feet, kicking and screaming, before he gave in to exhaustion and let them take him away from the chantry. 

Fitting. 

Had he not once said that all he had wanted to do was run away from clerics when he was taken away from Redcliffe as a child? 

Leliana watched him go from where she sat by the little well, shaded from the bright sun, wishing now that she had some strength to hate him. Inside the chantry, sisters were singing hymns, and their languid voices carried across the market, where labourers with water buckets were splashing away the remnants of the horrors that had just a few days before been rampant within the city walls. 

There was to be a funeral ceremony. She’d overheard some of the soldiers gossiping when she’d taken a walk by the docks. One for the soldiers who had given their lives in defense of Denerim, and one for the “Hero of Ferelden”. That was what she was to be known as, and that was now what everyone called her.  
It wasn’t their fault. They didn’t know her. they didn’t know anything about her.  
They would all remember her face for a while, if they were lucky enough to have seen it at all, and then they would forget and the title would be all that remained. 

And oh, what a heroic tale it would be! The woman who came from nothing and nowhere to conquer the Darkspawn against all odds and save the world, the martyr who gave her life for a new dawn. Songs would be sung in every tavern, toasts would be raised, stories would ripple across the Thedas to bolster the hearts of young and old. And the world would go on, until the blight was nothing more than an unhappy memory, and the sacrifice was forgotten.

How many tales had she told of the great heroes of the past? How many of those heroes left behind a vacuum in the hearts of the ones who loved them?

Dry-eyed, she stared blankly at the battered wooden doors of the Chantry. Somewhere inside, she knew the sisters, unhindered by a grief-stricken lover, would be cleansing the body, preparing it for its final journey. They would wipe the blood from her white skin. They would clean her tattered armour and smooth out her hair. In the end, she would look as though she merely slept.

A pair of young, tired looking sisters came to draw water from the well.  
“Did you see them, lying where they died?” one said to the other, sniffing as ambivalent tears rolled down her rosy cheeks. “Oh, what a sorry sight, to think they were all once children, wanting for nothing but comfort when they cried?”  
The other one scoffed. “they are children still, sister, children of the Maker, and all of them will have comfort at his side.”

“Oh, but the King! Could your heart not simply break for his sorrows? His lady love taken from him before the crown was even placed upon his brow!”

“There is to be a grand mausoleum built in Redcliffe, I’ve heard. He insisted upon it. A pretty sentiment, I suppose. They ought to burn her, release her to the wind. Its not right to ”

“She was Dalish, was she not? Does the Maker-“

“We are ALL children of the Maker. Even a heathen might find atonement in the world beyond through sacrifice, if it is his will.”

Leliana could take no more. 

They hadn’t even noticed her there, sitting behind the well as they talked. They were too busy gossiping like old women over a fire about someone they didn’t even know!

“STOP IT!” she screamed, startling them as she shot to her feet. “what do you know?! What gives you the right to interpret the will of the maker?! She was good! She was pure! Too good for this world, and for the likes of you to speak of her as though she was never a person with love and feeling at all! Don’t you see? Don’t you even understand?!”

It was too much. All of it was too much. The way they talked…of her immortal soul! Like it just a coin being tossed into a fountain, just an afterthought that held no power in the mortal world.

She had to go to the Maker…she had to find the peace she couldn’t find in life…he had to take her and…and…

Where was the damned Maker now?!

Leliana ran. She ran without a care for all the labourers and weary soldiers, and the chantry sisters who looked on while she stumbled her way on unsteady legs through the gates. And they were talking, all of them, filling her head with more dreadful questions no one of this world could answer.

“D’you think its true what they say? That it had to be a warden to strike the final blow?”

“Makes you think, doesn’t it? will it ever end? All the wars?”

“Does he ever feel pity for us? Does Andraste ever make him understand?”

She tripped over every single piece of debris until she stumbled and fell, somewhere in the fields where the carrion were still picking at the rotting flesh of the undiscovered dead on the horizon. The sun was warm, but the trampled, stained grass was cold and smelled of smoke and gore.  
How could the light even touch a place of such wretched despair?

Sobbing, she struggled to her knees. The thumb on her right hand was dribbling blood. When she sucked on it, she realized half the nail had been ripped off. “Why?” she wailed. “why? Why? WHY?!”

And that was how the Sabrae Clan found her. Cradling herself in the dirt like a mad beggar.


	24. Loghain's Atonement, Aftermath

_Too distracted by his own temper after yet another argument with the young King, he’d left the command tent determined to find something more worthwhile to focus on, and hadn’t even noticed her until she’d slammed into him carelessly as she ran down the narrow courtyard, knocking against his breastplate hard enough to scatter the scrolls he had tucked beneath his arm across the stone path. He very nearly turned his anger on her for it, but before he could she scoffed, affronted, as though it were his fault she hadn’t been looking where she was going, and it gave him pause. Sea-green eyes peered up from beneath her lashes, studying him intently, and she stepped back._

_Does she bite?_

_For some unknown reason, that was the first thing that came to his mind when the red-haired elf looked up at him with that fiercely guarded expression. It was the Dalish one that Cailan had prattled on about, the one Duncan intended to add to the Warden ranks._

_“watch where you’re running girl!” he exclaimed with impatience, but before he could stoop to retrieve his papers, she was already gathering them up._

_“Bad luck to cross paths with a wolf” she mumbled, before she rose to her feet and handed the scrolls back. She frowned then, as though she realized something unpleasant. “You are him, yes? The Black Wolf of Gwaren?”_

_A curious title, and not one he had heard before._

_“Teyrn of Gwaren, yes” he corrected her with a sigh of irritation._

_“Apologies” she said, with no small amount of disdain. “My kin don’t have lords or kings, thus I don’t have much knowledge of shemlen courtesies when faced with one.”_

_It was just as well he was born of common blood. A true nobleman would have sought to punish such impertinence. He simply found some dry amusement in it.  
“It’s a wonder your kind have any sense of coordination at all then.”_

_“We’ve had enough to survive for these many years amidst the turmoil of your kind.” She said coldly._

_He scoffed at that. “I hope for your sake you’ve got the hard skills to back up that attitude of yours, young miss. Maker knows Cailan will want you for the frontlines with the rest of his wardens.”_

_There was a great deal of defiance in those eyes, like those of a wild animal, caged and dragged far from its natural habitat. This elf didn’t look at all like she belonged, and moreso, didn’t look much as though she wanted to belong. And how well he knew that feeling._

_“Not my king.”_

_“Perhaps, but your life might yet be in his hands. Best pray that he has the wisdom to lead us to victory when the time comes, or your time here may be short-lived.”_

_“My fate will be my own” she said determinedly._

_Admirable, but foolhardy._

_They went their separate ways then, without another word. The girl had a strange sort of prettiness about her. He supposed it was only illuminated by that purposeful stubbornness._

_But soon enough, she would just be another face in the battle lines. More likely that reckless attitude would get her killed, so it was hardly worth his time to dwell upon it. ___

______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________ _

__The Guerrin’s of Redcliffe – now the apparent handlers of the little tyrant that would soon be crowned- issued all orders on their King’s behalf. All but two, as he soon found out._ _

__The first, Loghain discovered when the Wardens of Weisshaupt made contact with Ferelden for the first time since Ostagar.  
No one but himself remained to take the message, as the only surviving grey warden. The letter was written with such formality and lightness that it almost seemed that the Blight was no more than a bureaucratic issue to them. They wanted a detailed account of what had transpired, of course, everything from timelines of darkspawn activity to a summary of the Archdemon’s demise. The second request was for the safe return of the warden treaties, which he knew would have been left secure back in Redcliffe. It was their third request that would prove to cause issue:_ _

___“Pertaining to the Warden responsible for taking the final blow:_  
The body is to be retrieved, after what ceremony is desired by the  
Governance of Ferelden for the period of mourning, thence to be  
Transported with due haste to Weisshaupt, where it shall be  
Placed with honour amongst the grand mausoleum of those  
Who have made such noble sacrifices which have ensured  
The protection of Thedas in generations past” 

__Never once had they mentioned Lynaia by name. He supposed that they never knew of her to begin with. She had come and gone from nothing to fame so fast, and gone again like dust in the wind._ _

___Those of the Bannorn that resided within the war room looked at him with pitiless eyes when he entered. Their little makeshift council was already in attendance, dealing with the flood of requests from all across the damaged regions. In their kings absence. Of course there was no seat for him amongst them anymore, and they seemed determined to remind him of it. some of them looked more than a little smug when they saw him arrive._  
“Yes, Warden?” Teagan said, emphasizing the title snidely. “you have some message I suppose?”  
Some of the Bann’s refused to look up. Some did though, and a few of them wore a sort of half-concealed expression of discomfort. Oh, but how you must wish you had someone here to deal with the chaotic aftermath now, instead of the weeping fool skulking in the catacombs…  
“From the wardens of Weisshaupt” he clarified, his jaw set tightly to stop himself from speaking his thoughts.  
Teagan sighed and snatched the parchment from his hand, scanning the contents quickly and tutting as though it was just another bother amongst the many trivial topics of the day. “The king will need to see this” he said. “He has been silent on the matter of her funeral, refusing to speak of it. perhaps pressure from an outside source might convince him to arrange it.”  
“So inform him of it then” Loghain said, anticipating already that the young Guerrin was about to humiliate him further,simply because he could.  
“We are currently in session attempting to repair the damages to the Bannorn” he remarked derisively. “Or did you think that matters of the sovereignty ended when you lost your hold on the throne? You alone had the time to bring this to our attention, im sure you can find the time to deliver it personally to the King.”  
“I would not wish to distress the boy further” he said, nostrils flaring. “Given that at present he seems to be in the throes of so terrible a grief that he cannot bring himself to tend to the nation that needs him so direly.”  
A tense silence rose in the war room, in which no one would dare to utter a word.  
“My brother is attending to the king at present” Teagan said through gritted teeth. “I would advise that you bring your message to him, and that you remember your place, Warden Loghain. “  
“I’ll not forget my place” he spat angrily. “But neither will any of you, I should imagine, when piece by piece the integrity and strength of this kingdom is chipped away until its very foundations fall to ruin, all because you failed to stand by your rightful queen!”  
That ought to have caused an uproar, but heads were lowered immediately. They knew, of course they knew, that this would never have happened had Anora been given the trust she rightfully deserved. But they would be damned if they would admit it.  
“Like his father and brother before him” Teagan said icily, knowing he was right. “He will come into his own given time. “  
It was the last time he would ever stand in the war room at Denerim, and for the first time, he was glad of that. 

__Their good opinions didn’t matter to him anymore. They hadn’t ever borne a good opinion of him to begin with. All they had ever done was suckle at the teat of their bright and shining princes, all the while he’d skulked in the shadows, respected but never loved, holding the pillars of the kingdom upon his shoulders so those better men appeared strong enough to deal with their responsibilities._ _

__And where were they now? the great Maric Theirin, vanishing without a word, leaving the crown to a weak son that lived only for glory, and an even weaker son so zealous that he seized the throne for vengeance._ _

________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________ _

__“He’ll come out of it soon” Eamon said firmly as he escorted him down the narrow passage that lead to the catacombs beneath the chantry. “I am not so heartless to deny him his mourning time. Probably best she died though, for his sake at least, or he might never have put her aside in his mind.”  
Loghain said nothing in response. Not heartless indeed. It was doubtless that he’d had no small part in turning the boy to the path he now walked. He couldn’t help but wonder if he would feel such emotional distance if it was his own Orlesian wife lying dead before him. _ _

__The night Celia died, the sun had never risen with the same brightness again…_ _

___Shrouded in the purest whit silk, Lynaia’s cold body lay upon the stone slab of the altar in the catacombs. It was stained and pockmarked with blood._  
The king knelt beside her, clutching at white, lifeless fingers, his expression one of frozen, wide-eyed shock.  
No one had been able to rouse him. two days worth of meals were beside the bedroll they had left for his comfort, but it was said that he hadn’t slept at all, and the meals had gone untouched.  
Eamon left him there, patting the boy with feigned sympathy. “You’ve received a message, sire, from the Wardens.”  
Alistair did not respond at first, did not look at them. He simply stared at the little white hand clasped beneath his own. After a long moment of uncomfortable silence, he cleared his throat. “Leave us, Eamon.”  
With a swift bow, he departed, and Loghain was left in the doorway of the musty chamber with the message gripped tightly in his fist.  
It took a long time before the boy turned his head to observe him there. What a pitiful sight he was. The regal golden armour bore no splendor when its wearer looked so bedraggled. His eyes were black-brown orbits, sunken deep into his skull, and his youthful face looked doughy and loose, like that of a much older man. The blood of battle had congealed and dried on his face, making him look more like a walking corpse than a living, breathing man.  
For a moment he didn’t seem to recognize him. Then finally, he blinked. “She wasn’t hurt, just looked…asleep.” he rasped. “they don’t…none of them know…no one can tell me how…”  
‘The price of killing an Archdemon; the life of a grey warden” he clarified emptily. ”Riordan spoke of it the night before the march.”  
The boy nodded, slowly. “In death; sacrifice. So Duncan hid the true meaning…” 

__Halam’shivanas._ _

__The elven word resonated in his mind at though it had some power, and made his skin prickle with discomfort._ _

__“Two wardens pressed the final assault” Alistair murmured. “only one returns…”_ _

__His train of thought was clear._ _

__He turned his attention back to the altar. “This message then; get to it.”_ _

__“Her remains” Loghain said shortly. “they wish them to be retrieved, laid to rest in the Fortess of Weishaupt.”_ _

__The boys entire body shook with a single, intense sob, and he was silent again. A long moment passed before he spoke again. “No”_ _

__“it is their right-”_ _

__Angered, the frail princeling shot him a look of pure poison. “And it is MY right to refuse!” he spat furiously, slamming a hand down upon the stone floor hard enough to rattle the dust from the rafter above.” She d-died on Ferelden soil and here she shall remain!”_ _

__Stunned by the sudden outburst, Loghain said nothing._ _

__The boy raised himself upright, leaning over the body beneath the shroud, and kissed the silk above her lips as his shoulders trembled. “you shall have a grand Mausoleum, my love, grander even than the tomb of Garahel.” He whispered, whimpering. “I need you here…I need you with me…always…don’t…luh-l-leave me in this howling wilderness…”_ _

__The sight of him filled Loghain with disgust. She was gone. Gone like all the rest, and he was speaking to a vessel that was nothing more than empty flesh._ _

__He might have felt pity, and very nearly did, until the boy’s tears dried upon his cheeks and he looked back at him with those cold, cold eyes._ _

__“You may leave now” He said dully, with much more clarity._ _

__Before he reached the door, Alistair called out for him one last time. “And do not think to return. You are henceforth banished from this kingdom, Loghain Mac Tír, never to return under pain of death. ”_ _

_________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________ _

__He didn’t grieve for her. He hadn’t grieved for any of them in earnest. It was perhaps his greatest weakness, this inability to escape the ghosts of the past._ _

__Instead he’d fled under shadow of night, crossing over the border he had protected for these many years, and did not look back._ _

__If he looked back now, he’d be lost._ _

__Weak. They were all weak. Weak and stupid fools who thought with their selfish hearts instead of their brilliant minds._ _

__Maric, Cailan, Rowan, Lynaia…_ _

__Friends, all of them, but in his bitterness, he allowed himself to hate them for leaving him alone in this world to endure, without comfort, and for making him care to begin with._ _

__“We’re all running from something” Maric’s voice rang out clear in his mind, a distant memory from a distant past._ _


End file.
